Right. Here we are. Silence still suits me better. And he writes as if words were snowflakes. Unique. Fragile. Momentary.

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 mountains; and to

a disappearing poet of always, snow

and to morning’s beautiful friend

twilight (and a first dream called ocean) and

let must or if be damned 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 mad skill each world of blood is made

(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

(From e e cummings’ No Thanks, 1935)