Strung on armatures of soft gold wires they ply their wares
At dark lamplit tables in a cobbled square, they lay out gewgaws
Lengths of hissing paduasoy, chenilles, brocades and eiderdowns
For sale. Enticing items which change the more you stare.
At dusk, the Park’s gates open allowing all the guests to enter
The sky burns bright as though at dawn, but no one notices
Long planned is this peculiar blancmange and jelly dinner
A buffet froid. A sortilege of calling cards is drawn
One falters. His shadow bows and arcs along the balustrade
Until a woman with sharp scissors comes and cuts him out
A gown of Venetian silk in ghostblood silk with lime rosettes
A barebreasted concubine with high cockade pulls it on –
In farthingale, in man-bone corset
Streetwalks a creaking Winter.