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 on 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)