Called into Play

    Fall fell：  so that's it for the leaf poetry：

    some flurries have whitened the edges of roads

    and lawns： time for that， the snow stuff： &

    turkeys and old St. Nick： where am I going to

    find something to write about I haven't already

    written away： I will have to stop short， look

    down， look up， look close， think， think， think：

    but in what range should I think： should I

    figure colors and outlines， given forms， say

    mailboxes， or should I try to plumb what is

    behind what and what behind that， deep down

    where the surface has lost its semblance： or

    should I think personally， such as， this week

    seems to have been crafted in hell： what： is

    something going on： something besides this

    diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact： I

    could draw up an ancient memory which would

    wipe this whole presence away： or I could fill

    out my dreams with high syntheses turned into

    concrete visionary forms： Lucre could lust

    for Luster： bad angels could roar out of perdition

    and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite

    perfected yet： the gods could get down on

    each other； the big gods could fly in from

    nebulae unknown： but I'm only me： I have 4

    interests——money， poetry， sex， death： I guess

    I can jostle those. . . .