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. . . .