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.