Private Nun

by David Madgalene


I first saw you the next morning. The mallard realized it was—-no, about 6:30. Black I admire. I went leather. Others soft.

Smelling good, his private school. Like wifely mandala. Didn't want to sniff her brassiere. Even I who had no lover. You are his private nun.

I see the pieces, her dried juices. The mirror of your madness, nomad man. Girls in your worship. No longer us.

Young woman dressed in white shoes. A stench them up made dotted. Instead I'd lay the postman. Found I enjoyed "vice-versa."

Follow your saint. Pray to him, not Jesus' nun. Touch you or no, lover.

I saw two perky breasts. Get in her Volvo. In the backseat, bras and panties. She wore red vestments, came to him.

The girl at the taco made me feel like I couldn't although to others you are Chihuahua and he charlatan. Texas nun and teary clown running soul.

I dumped the contents, smelled of her dried juices, where poetry ends and birds cage in creek. You are of the I live there praying for the girl. Spirit you are like forever he went. Menstrual blood didn't bother him.

Way we remember world, the girl at the Salvation Army or do I linger? Blue mini and a plaid floor giraffe negligee.

Volvo the kimono. I didn't sleep. You young and beautiful nun. Plaid housed the night.

Flat-bellied nun. She taught at his private school for girls. Love is my witness...sometimes I feel, whether she knot them up. Pretend I wanted that skirt or jeans were her dog like man said on tv.

Angels wet with whipping, I prostrate myself before private nun. Miss Nancy lost in reverie. Pink poet's shirt and black dress. When first I saw you, I realized it was no longer nylon kabuki.

I was a dog savoring pure girl. Reality among wanderers, Miss Nancy. Miss Ann. Heloise, the famous nun of her day. He was your messiah. My feet a gift.

Whether she meant or a couple blocks away, I saw a young woman drive off a broken kaleidoscope. Silhouette not Buddha's nun. I want to know: how far is your heart coyote?

The pink mystery girl love to have the poet's shirt standing in them. Brown town one day I saw a small white bra peeking out as if Calliope looking into the gun, saw her silhouetted. The girls in these his moments of nun. I didn't sleep that night and the floral motif, ornamented with lace.

Autumn shall you all Asian and I share and Buddha's nun. Black nun. I decided that day she must have needed, smelled so good.

When first I saw you—-not the way we remember it—-

White Volvo and your silhouette. White blouse and black dress. Black coffee and leather scent.

The dream of a duck. I, too, want to be fed.