Diagnosis

on tiptoe, creeping
as through a fog
I ready my net,
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