Portrait Of A Lady

 Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady's slipper.
Your knees are a southern breeze—or a gust of snow.
Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? —As if that answered anything.
—Ah, yes.
Below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore— Which shore?— the sand clings to my lips— Which shore? Agh, petals maybe.
How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? —the petals from some hidden appletree—Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.

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