Hers was a green, recumbent fire
a kind of homicidal neutrality
for which no solution was forthcoming.
Hers was a bag of tricks both
precious and terrifying.
Together we were as orange
as a sunrise, a spectral
and uncompromising flame.
I loved her and that goes without saying.
We did not coincide harmoniously.
She was a bell sanctimonious and habitual
and I was a poor godless church mouse.
How she pained me, day after day,
furnishing me and saving me scattered
onto unlabeled disks and I unable
to discern from any of my pieces
a reconcilable identity.
Had I been a board she would have
reduced me to splinters.
I, the love-struck penguin,
forgave it all
in the pursuit of monogamy.
I loved her as a dying man
She fed me lies on silver trays
and dreams simultaneously
measurable and misleading.