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?

I said petals from an appletree.