Nov 132013
The sum of all the soul
Is lazy exhalations,
Smoke rings in rings in rings
And their derivations.

So says the brune cigar
(Burning wisely the while)
Letting shooken cinders char
From the clear kiss of fire.

So the smokes of poems
Insinuate a smile;--
Dismiss thisness, singer,
	should you debut:
Reality's vile.

Too-precise a sense erases
Literature's half-guesses.


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