The Seasons Their Asterisks and Their Pawns

you're quite blue my springtime
you've done rather well for yourself
too bad for summer if it doesn't get something out of it
all you have to do is eat the tiny eyes of prehistory
under the scales of justice
filled equally with the fire and the water of the just
my watch is just right
what time is it
it's a quarter to summer
the green wigs ring the feather bells
the telegraphic vases fill up
with the flesh of old fabliaux
the stars unlace their bodices
and show their lecherous rosettes
the dials of the roses indicate July

here comes winter again too late
a man as pale as snow
is slung over its shoulder
he succumbed after the everyday summers of winter
too many summers can even circle the square
it's winter every Monday
they saw in half the white of black
and have each part attacked individually
by a good blade
while the master of the house sleeps
on his fragrant roots
the panoply surging up from the black coffee
doesn't rouse him
nor the snow that falls so early this year
on the glum lecterns

when the meshes of the breasts burst
and the set days turn on their faucets
to let the waves of human leaves gush out
we've grown very small again
and we're following the procession of ants in mourning
with torches in their hands
and mice in their mouths
under the umbrellas of numbers
the crucified food has the approximate shape of autumn

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