Tryptic

Three women with the same chin, and same ears. The last of the three has less likeness to the others, her eyes will not fit within their glancing windows. although she is almost, she will ever be not quite. One, the one with the chin as soft as a pillow I could speak to and she would not understand my words, but she would nod and smile just to please me. The other the one with ears that match the first, is wise, she sits on a lotus leaf like a scintillating frog-angel, or a green Mona Lisa. I could speak to her and she would nod, repeating my words verbatim. The last lady will be the first. Her eyes are not quite left or right, she is dissimilar. My interest in her is impurely plutonic, I listen, unseen sex pods, pop all over her nubile body. I never see any of this, mind hides its picture shows. Late at night or early, we build a tangled love nest out of all the same things we can think of. though, like that Shubert symphony It never gets finished. Always, some old, odd twigs cannot be woven together, no matter how hard we try.