We lay them down in a green pasture:
little colored globes, then knock them about.
We’re reckless, clumsy: my friend and I.
We talk and chalk and drink—pretend not to think.
We gossip, smile and seldom concentrate
refer to lack of skill as economic wherewithal.
I drop three quarters more into the makeshift god-machine,
and we bully little globes about again
hustle planets into black holes with sticks.
And I wonder if gods play like this.
No, they’re more adept at games but take their time,
are more precise, carry bigger sticks.