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. 

1920, 1934

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.

1920, 1934