There’s a die

in my drawer.

It is not cast.

It is surrounded

by junk,

detritus from a

peripatetic

writing life.

Rubber bands,

scraps of paper,

on which

are cryptic phrases

like “these names

are humble

prayers” and

“he was

intent on

haruspication.”

The die

is like an eye

that perceives

in obscurity.

A snake-eye.

I trust such

an eye.

This says

all you need to

know about me.

And, somewhere,

there is a pun

on the word,

die, but, today,

I am too feckless

to unearth it.

God be praised.