Teresa the Idiot

In reality my loves

are the strange box of a Polish doll

The blonde’s eyes appearing

fixed to her hips long after midnight

the garret always singular to loosen

a massive mane

across her back, its strands

thick and fine draping

her otter-like chin

Deliberately she’d peer out from the wall

and nothing could be seen but the shadow of  her breasts

hidden beneath marmots of  hair

And lovely was her skin’s radiance

at that unusual hour

Her waist’s digressions

easily discerned

as bees through grass

the window neither open nor closed

What I saw, yellow like crystal,

rose from sleepy thighs

amassed in unseemly tourniquets

Everything before me, a pale shimmer

of  hairs fanning delicately

to reveal the pink or green skin I no longer know

of  hips a million centimeters

from my gaze.