Portrait of a Lady
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our 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?I said petals from an appletree.
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