Catch Him

He’s
an interstitial zone.

He’s the littoral.
Either
in between dark and dawn
or
between day and dark.

How strong is your grasp?

He’s slick.
If he gets loose
he’ll not be
easy.  Might catch him
but might not know
we have. 
That’s the same
as failing to.

He’s fine this way, though.
Never thought of
incompleteness or
lack of definition
as his fate. 

Our failure to catch
is not problematic for him.
Our distress isn’t,
either. 

We wither
and, as stated,
he’s fine.
Fine enough
to slip between closed fingers.
Fine singing
“I Walk On Gilded Splinters”
to us.  Fine

watching, ow, ooh,
how we step wrong toward him
and contrive a blessing there.

Even using the word “him”
is our
contrivance.