It takes but a word to make a poem, to make a song, to hear a beat. And this word here is a “real” word, as if any word were real, as if anything is real. (“Reality” was always “‘reality’” to Nabokov, and now also to us.) But most pwoermds, most poems of but a single word, are something else: something made up, something imagined—a wordgriffin fashioned from portions of many other words, a word dreamt up with no source to make sense of it, a Janusword that faces two ways or three as it sets its meaning polysemously before us.