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
the green wigs are ringing
what time it is
it's a quarter to summer
the stars are unlacing their bodices
and unknotting their lecherous roses
the dials of days indicate july
here comes winter again too late
a man as pale as snow is slung over its shoulder
a man who succumbed to the sequence of the daily summers of winter
too many summers can even circle the square
it's winter every monday
winter saws the white of black in half
and has 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 leprechauns
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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