GAPS This solitary game seems unlikely to win ever at first shuffle, slots for parasite kings confounding all four black and red suits of flat-faced royalty dealt and cast down at a plywood table in a 2 by 4 house on a wobbly planet where hightech humanity has built and cast up so many rockets into space their multiple punctures now riddle the atmosphere, letting the ultraviolet Sun beat down far too radiantly for the game to last forever.

next poem previous poem Storyline Index page 1, 2, 3 Alphabetical Index page 1 Contents Angelfire Home Pages Absolute Background Textures Archive John Talbot Ross