The Disupkeep of our Origins

Was it a leaf caught in the fluid currents of a creek,
Sucked under and churned in gradient eddies,
Baptized beneath the rapids of bolemic rocks
While an Indian shoots an arrow
Into a nearby sycamore drooping
Under the weight of leaves that will someday
Fall into the choking fission of riverlike
Time that moves in a surge that rattles
Men's lives like proximate graves?
Was it a half-eaten apple, golden-brown
Like the heart that someone somewhere
Must have, bobbing between escapes
Like a hitched breath, soft and cidered,
That might cross a boy's golden-brown
Complexion and barley hair, ripe for the harvest,
As he leaves his spittle drifting, beside the bobbing
Apple, slowly away from him in a creek
Under-glowing with copper-plated stones,
The pimple-fleshed river bed?
Was it a chewed leather boot,
A dog-eared novel, a candy wrapper
In the inevitable fishgrip of this waterfallish
Tumble-momentum that ushers everything
Into a razor sharp burial,
A constant downgrade, de-evolution,
Fallback to a neanderthal mind,
Cast-out into utter foolishness?
Maybe it was just a cow jumping the sun-christened moon
That fell by Darwin's hand into the raging machine
Of dying water rushing, as a man
To his eager doom, into deficiency
And slowly thinning into cerebral baldness.