Beretta

It was simple
it was evening
it was October, Beretta, mon amour.
You didn't even realize
how I transmute from a mole, hounded
through galleries of all sorts
(oh, where did the euglena viridis about which
I dreamed so much run to!)
an astrology full of marrow
and without regrets.
It was evening.
I was diaphanous.
Chemical.
Fire grass.
Retching.
While steaming amid the zodiac
it was so much October
and so much evening,
Beretta, mon amour . . .


It was.