moves. My white pawn offered as bait too soon,
you knew I'd wage our game like a child or the moon,
I laughed too much at your jokes, my dead reckoning.
Rhythm, Luce, it's all about rhythm and timing.
You're too free and loose; I lost a bishop to the tune
of both your knights and your castle, a silly boon,
unworthy of your real strategy and talent for rhyming.
That may be true, but I wanted our kings to dance
across the board together, perpetual stalemates
watching this play impress and enhance
our own gravity wells: etching your every glance
in deep sea relief, outlining your tactics as fates
on cards I drew you by hand and by chance.
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