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drowning in the cold beauty of that gaze; we wake stumbling in a night imposed by those radiant eyes. And the beauty that loves us raises its hand to our face not to stroke but to strike it. The face may have spoken of love to us, but one day the soul behind it denies us, and we are baffled why. Like beauty, love exists in time: this is our hope and despair. The second part of this essay will appear in the next issue. Christopher Bernard, a founding editor of Caveat Lector, writes poetry, fiction, plays, criticism, and essays.  |  | |||
