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 —

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.

— William Carlos Williams

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