Attila's Nuns Poem by James McLain

I can not make a bowling ball
grow from a peanut..
It can only walk around you,
watching your ink run, out the holes
he left in you.It was not I..Yet,
If it smells fishy, it will still bite, into
at the word, glass eyes weep glass.
Still it knows you had a very hard life,
it does not lay at your feet, for your dogs.
Still, being the other white meat,
lean short of rib, highways of Pentecostal.
You make it search for your superior mother,
Attila's nun,
that runs backwoods,
onto the Huns sharp spears.
Fair Helena harbors shook even less,
when it's light house that shines in you,
fell into the sea.
When you stand in the sea, remember the spear
Alexandro's, slew your husbands with,
so you could walk the streets, uncovered.
The sun even makes the dead breath life again.