Whatever This Is

Not truly caught, but glimpsed.
The slick of a wet rainbow,
brushed for a gleaming moment –
ephemeral promise.

Not truly tasted, but teased.
A speck on the tip of the tongue,
dissolving too quick to say
sweet or sour,
hot or cold.

It is split light.
It is crashing waves.
It is unclinchable.
But still my fingers seek it out,
like bare hands trying to
grasp the silver body of a
darting fish.