This grass-less green field
a flat-earth society
dedicated to straight orbits
striped comets
colored moons

No life upon
but surrounding fire-breathing gods
extend their reach
with slender, polished sapling intent

Punctuating each edict
with white purity
a round dream
sent spinning into each
galaxy of opportunity
completed with a short fall
into one of six black holes

the silent jurors

They follow the numbers
these gods
down from plenty
up from none
until the last signal of eternity
is sighted, aligned
a bargain struck
straight into the nowhere
that ends the game

someone pays
the other accepts

The next group places their tokens
on the rim
of the rectangle field

The night is younger
than the universe that envelops it

but we all follow the same rule:

wait to play
the dark eight
last