Tron

Bink bonk went the Tron eating silicon bits

and the lovely trees Daphned about the orchard

formerly as young girls ungainly looped behind ―

   their quirks of charm fresh as a wave

      through the golden dry acres. 

Wit-free after long offgassing   

as the trees so near to the underworld

come a-moulting glass feathers as in molten-flowing,

   now cool, like cellophane, as ambience ―

     Tron! Glory ‘o the dry gold hills!

The programmer is lonely, isn’t it, Joe?

Well, see through it, Jack, said the VRP.

A dodecahedron of open faces

      where swim the universes,

      laving, then breaching, firewalls;

In the realm of the emanating strophe ―

in one realm, the place and it’s cargo poised

with most of all of it at the back, awake;

      and the food Tron must survive on

      bubbles like the sun in his throat.