Spring 1960 • Vol. XXII No. 2 Poetry |

Party Game

"I love your hair that way," she said.   We sought through rooms for something warm enough. We tested miles of bed, lay on an open moor that spread   beyond fourposters and the dawn. Mutually grappled, we ate the fruit:   skin and core, and quaffed flesh deeply, dampening our solitude, corrupting images of childhood,   slipping into age too steeply. "It's not the way I thought it was,"   she said. So I was Adam damned again for female niches and flaws. Thus, we deserted mattress moors,   returned, wise now, to parlor games. And spin the bottle all our days—  no game's a turn that really matters. Though minds have likened worlds to stages, the tragicomic masks of age   and youth must come at last to tatters.

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"I love your hair that way," she said.   We sought through rooms for something warm enough. We tested miles of bed, lay on an open moor that spread   beyond fourposters […]

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