Her body is not so white as <br />anemone petals nor so smooth--nor <br />so remote a thing. It is a field <br />of the wild carrot taking <br />thefield by force; the grass <br />does not raise above it. <br />Here is no question of whiteness, <br />white as can be, with a purple mole <br />at the center of each flower. <br />Each flower is a hand's span <br />of her whiteness. Wherever <br />his hand has lain there is <br />a tiny purple blossom under his touch <br />to which the fibres of her being <br />stem one by one, each to its end, <br />until the whole field is a <br />white desire, empty, a single stem, <br />a cluster, flower by flower, <br />a pious wish to whiteness gone over-- <br />or nothing.<br /><br />William Carlos Williams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/queen-anne-s-lace/
