Your thighs are appletreeswhose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky?
The skywhere Watteau hung a lady'sslipper.
Your kneesare a southern breeze — ora gust of snow.
Agh! whatsort of man was Fragonard?— As if that answeredanything. — Ah, yes.
Belowthe knees, since the tunedrops that way, it isone of those white summer days,the tall grass of your anklesflickers upon the shore —Which shore? —the sand clings to my lips —Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe.
Howshould I know?
Which shore?
Which shore?— the petals from some hiddenappletree — Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.
