A Variation on an Old Game

One, two, three -
we are craps players ready to toss -
and then he has plumped for stone -
his fist doubled up like a boy forward-rolling -
but I have chosen paper -
my hand is a karate chop -
but now he's switched to wildfire
and his knuckles are the torched skulls
of forest animals -
but I have made a black hole -
my fingers grasp a spyglass
neither one of us can see -
but then he's come up with a ring of people
who are sort of friends with each other
and have a lot of money between them
and his knotted mitt is drawing itself
like an Escher, fisting itself like a contortionist -
and I cannot top that.