Issue 20, Autumn-Winter 1958-1959
He sits before me now, reptilian, cold.
Worn skeletal with sorrow for his child.
He would have lied to her, were he not old:
An old man’s fumbling lips are not defiled
By the sweet lies of love. Yet one must be
Skillful to bring it off; that treachery
Whips back to lash the bungler of its art.
He curses his ineptitude of heart.