Magda

You whisper love, on throwaway 'phones, your ravaged face a moon, an arc of pearl doves, a lifetime learning to moan, fly to those who give, luminous as a sign, above the credit zones, your search to earn, is that why you use, linen and eau de cologne, does it make them come, you wear a hooded front, like saints show their bones, it massages your soul, take your rest above, or in gardens lie prone, beyond police sirens, your star is not alone.