Summer 1950 • Vol. XII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1950 |

Ice Carnival

Sweet inarticulate wench, we have tricked you out as Lady, Clapped a crown on your boy and crossed the holiday banners. What if the Gemini turn, brothers-in-blood turned bloody? The waiters grease their skates with naive orders for dinner. They serve endless aperitifs on international ice. Do we lift the eyes in doubt, a glow no sun's on the face? The orchestra simpers a waltz and we crisscross hands.    Pink birds We are, and arabesque, leaving patterns of art on pink ice: This figure cut for the lady and that for the sallow lord. Sharp are the jeweled cloak's folds.    The crown has delicate points. We applaud because we are cold.    What if the stripling faints? The fool who says it was hunger is packed off with our jeers. The Gemini drip.    There are rumors of rain.    The tired moon            glints. The waiters bring coffee and brandy. &nb

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Sweet inarticulate wench, we have tricked you out as Lady, Clapped a crown on your boy and crossed the holiday banners. What if the Gemini turn, brothers-in-blood turned bloody? The […]

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