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 souther 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.

		William Carlos Williams