The Scrabbled God

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THE SCRABBLED GOD


Enamored with the word

as I've constructed it—a good 

word too, if yet a couple 


tiles short—I struggle

to abandon what I've pieced

together from the chaos 

dealt. The more I stare

the more impossible to tear

my mind from what it wants


to see, till gradually it clots

like concrete or a scab, my vision 

hardening to one configuration 


of the letters in my hand.

And here the game will end 

unless I scrabble them again,


re-discover what's abiding in

my very hand. It is an act which 

will necessitate a falling back 


a turn or two to find—behind

the mind’s partition—the word

which dwells within the word.

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