To a Cake of Ice on the Sidewalk

O STONE of the temple of all vanishing things,
You must not lie there taking winter by the beard.
Your shoulders spread out like a coffin’s, wide,
And billeted on the street while cousin clouds
Fly ribbon elsewheres at the horizon’s rim.

Although tight-locked you hoard, O private beast,
Ten thousand flowers’ dewdrops in your chest,
You are a public charge on the state of sight.
If you will not dance in long and leopard throats
Of alcohol and mate with bubbles of frivolity,
Nor battle the midnight long the hundred rank
Odors in the poor food-boxes of the town,
Nor cool the brows dying from too much living. —

Then go slip an inch when no one’s looking, yes,
Slide down the street, escape into the East
River and seek your Glaciers’ Golden Age,
For here you are the coldest thing alive,
Almost too naked for the human eye.