Poem for Friday

Portrait of a Lady
By William Carlos Williams

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?
-- the petals from some hidden
appletree -- Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.


There cannot be enough mentions of the William Shatner horse semen lawsuit.

pointed out these Presidential action figures!

I have answered 14 of the 40 or so LJ comments I need to answer. See, I'm trying! I didn't even catch up on Dawson's Creek last night because I was trying to keep on top of my correspondents correspondence! And also I was led into vice and perversion by who leads me so very well.

At least I am not overly in love with Aragorn when I'm an elf:


- Which Legolas are You? -