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.