Comrade

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