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Moon Set

Beneath the perpetual cloud blanket we waited,

wondering in what form the natives would appear.

Too late we learned the

clinging vines torn from our ship

were our erstwhile hosts,

and in vegetal retaliation the weeding crew

were crushed and ripped apart.

Finally, it just became too dangerous

to venture out of doors, and

our days quickly degenerated into pinochle,

group sex, and drug-supported

reality denial.

Then of course the videotapes we made

found a home in the native black market,

and we purchased fuel for our return

trip by playing strip pinochle to packed fields of

quivering businessplants.