imm•ature liter•ature

here’s to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your (in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here’s to silent certainly mountainside; and to
a disappearing poet of always, snow
and to morning; and to morning’s beautiful friend
twilight (and a first dream called ocean) and

let must or if be dammed with whomever’s afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks, nor dares to feel (but up
with joy; and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here’s to one undiscoverable guess
of whose skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon