Brought up as I was to ask of the weather
Whether it was fair or overcast,
Here, at least, it is a pretty morning…
--Daryl Hine

I sat in my room this pretty evening waiting for something to happen, when Rimbaud reminded me of his existence. I am trying to make the transition from summer to autumn, that most nostalgic of seasons, one claims, while another maintains frolicking in leaves, blood no longer sluggish. I have imagined scarves and hearty soups, apples, the absence of pallid pastels. But I am sad nonetheless. Rimbaud will have none of falling:

At four in the morning, in summer,
Love’s sleep slumbers on.

Or

No one’s serious at seventeen
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafes are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

At least autumn is sincere. Off the market til August. In other thoughts, I wonder why he’s so fixated on drool and spit?