In crosswords we recall Gaea, Clio,
the long-named Mnemosyne (as a clue),
and even (when squeezed to two letters) Io.
(The Times, though, disallows words of just two.)
This artifice of circumstance, contrived
that we invoke some dead divinity
once worshiped (now thought never to have lived)
in festival, thought, and ceremony,
seems fair use. It’s neither swearing nor prayer,
but supplication, spurred by hint and stricture,
to parse the matrix, squiggling to fill bare
boxes with meaning, altering the picture
of given perpindiculars—as Chaos
spawned Cosmos, once, by checkering a Void.
How frequently our answer, still, is Eos,
The Dawn; how rarely is it ever God.