"for all the"

In smoke,
the moonlight swirls into fragrant night
like cream into clear black tea, curling
deep down deep, visible and furled
like blown glass into marbles, only
the prettiest ones – the ones with all
the colors trapped in, except here, these
- all the colors are ash, charcoal, white,
argent, silver and grey, and the music is
click, skip, roll – regular as breaths, as
red eyes flicker and watch the play, and
your lucky shooter once again shoots
past the test, knocks the last crystal ball out
of the magic circle, and it – like the moment
it caromed from – is yours.
Gathered up in smoke,
trapped in glass, clicking
and counting each other
in your drawstring bag,
take what’s yours
and let the ash enrich
whatever it hasn’t yet set on fire. This game,
this garden, this match - like our lungs,
is done.