Little months little smokes
and oblivion in a wool dress
in a door opens tenderly
near a wall where the wind is born
near the jolly garden
where saints and angels
are afraid of the seasons
the alleys have no names
they are the hours or the years
I stroll leisurely
dressed in a cement overcoat
and a hat of black straw
I don't remember
if it's nice out
I walk smoking
and I smoke walking
easily
every once in a while I tell myself
it's time to stop
and I continue walking
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