Green I wish were the color
by Stan Petrovich
Of my lover's eyes,
But instead she gives me a rush
Of hazel, floating upon itself,
Unmoved by the glint of the searing sun.
Thrice were the teardrops of agony
When we split:
There was lost fluorescence,
Damnable fallen bloom,
Nothing but a loss of a loss.
When I met her again
Lore had been tendered upon a spit,
Lost and broiled away,
Just like her verdant eyes
That, alas, had never been hers