Enter our spring. Your dark dilated
pupils dive softly through the brisk
sweep-net of gold articulated
by angels of the solar fisk.

Come night, the sky scoops florid flotsam:
incomprehensibly the stars
conspire in cliques of branchless blossom
above the lull-engulfed boulevards.

You may shrug off my daft loquacious
prattle, yet you'll abide my swell
enlightened optical elations.
You laugh; you love me, I can tell.

The past hangs thick; but, late returners,
we watch it vanish flake by flake.
We douse the glims; but, lunar learners,
we fall emphatically awake.

And when at last we sleep, I wonder
what categoric, clement, couth,
kinetic hand has filled with thunder
the high equator of our youth.

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