Triptych

i

The fall of man

            leaves his tree

Branches into hands by

            the fire of

                        Prometheus

Comes again,

            protozoan

gods in

            a petri dish.

ii

One walks the plank.

Crocodile tears

            on the tongue

                        of an apple

Screens the gears of war,

            no peace has ever

                        come out of

The barrel of a gun—

I’ll stick a flower in it.

iii

Boing.

Tree-hugging

            dark matter,

                        a shady hill comes

            into the light

Revealing interconnectedness

            a part of the dance

And Plato’s great year,

            spinning like a top—