Issue 17, Autumn-Winter 1957
Our ancient lives enhanced their lively wit
We hissed the cave shut with an angry spyt
The hills will stagger down the mountain’s rind.
We stared beyond the voyage of the kite
That was before all anguish on this site
The wild leaves vanish in the furious wind.
The dreary men set up the iron spit
This justified the madman’s holy writ
The piled brush dryly waits the savage find.