What do I owe for these drinks of juniper,
of emulsions of ambergris with titmouse scream,
of midnight-misted sprays then breathed;
what do I owe for that glass of Jupiter,
of thunderbirds mixed with quicklime streams,
of ocean-bottom tortured and released--
How much owed, to whom, upon what day?

You owe nothing for your drinks of juniper,
nor all the rest-- the earth is free,
the recipes simple, and death too reposes lean;
you owe nothing for those eyes of lucid fern,
nor that snowbound breath of math unleashed,
nothing more for your eel-jawed soul shark-green--
But drops of truth? Youth deluged, pre-paid.