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—