Diagnosis

My palms sweat
as I ready my nets;
I creep on tip-toes
through this fog,
poised to catch the beast
whose silent claws
and slipping scales
are keeping me from peace.
If I can weave words
into lines that bind,
I can trap it and,
wriggling, pin it
under glass and
the bright glare of lights
and know its name;
but I hesitate
to swing my net –
not for fear that
I’ll come up empty –
but rather for fear
that, should I snatch
the scaly beast,
more than just my nets
will break.