Classic Poem

It is true that her breasts
Are fresh-peeled apples,
Her thighs new-peeled willow,
That this cool whiteness has left me where I stand,
My arms fixed at humorous angles —
That black birds jeer
At the innocent savagery of my gestures.
It is true —
But I remember
The music of her feet approaching me
as drums,
The silence of her hands against her breasts
as tambourines,
The loosening of her hair
as the crash of cymbals —
And I remain
Unfrightened by the moon,
Unwithered by the sun.