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The speaker admits never knowing the names of his visions, then undercuts the mystery by saying he can always look them up.

The joke is sharp because it refuses to romanticize revelation. Vision arrives first and the filing system later, so transcendence gets dragged back into reference books, labels, and worldly afterthought.

Two lines undercutting revelation: 'I've never known the name of any vision / I've ever had...???' then 'But then I can always go and look it up'.

The poem refuses to romanticize vision. The confession that the speaker has never known a single vision's name is immediately defused by the flat, domestic remedy - you can look it up - so transcendence gets filed under reference rather than mystery. The handwritten triple question mark, transcribed from the scan, is the page's hesitation made visible, a marginal flicker of doubt sitting between the claim and its dismissal. The deadpan trust that names exist somewhere to be found is the quiet joke. This reading remains provisional because the page is marked mixed quality band and the question-mark annotation is a handwritten mark whose force is uncertain.