I want to make a gun–

Platinum, the stock scored

With rosewood’s grain.

The bullets will leave the barrel

As aimless as the gypsy moths

Eating July in green bites.

My gun will kill every other gun,

A cannibal. No more kidneys

Pierced, urine alkali in spleen,

Bile spilled, livers unmolested.

Crows will be uninterested

In the metal carcasses.

Then I will take the last gun,

And boil it, reduced to a danger

Agreed upon in the pot.

The beads I mold will be irregular

Because I am not a smith

But I will make necklaces

And throw them to women
On Mardi Gras, without flashing.