Autumn was here
Then she left
Now she’s back
From summer to winter
without an interval for autumn
is like going
from glory to disgrace
like a sinner caught in the confessional
or from naked to naked
without the time to get masked
or from failure to acclaim
without a period of wished-for obscurity
a year or two of doing the same
thing everyday like any other person
who works in the spirits section of a liquor store
or from rejection to posthumous fame
like the history of avant-garde art
summed up by Gertrude Stein
(10 / 5 / 18)