Petit Ravine

Rocky cliffs rushing head on
prepared to crash
and a flower in steps forward
to weep

Her gas is nitro or tin
burning within
and as the cliff slows
an aphid descends to live
prophetically

The moon in line with the sun
and the planets at one hundred
twenty degrees
of separation
green and brown soldiers arise in place of that little aphid

The river of tears wash away a canyon
and no one to raft upon
cactus needles doused in heros' drug
If I can not end the world, I'll change mine.