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 plumb¹ what is

    behind what and what behind that， deep down

    where the surface has lost its semblance²： 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： Lucre³ could lust⁴

    for Luster⁵： bad angels could roar out of perdition

    and kill the AIDS vaccine⁶ 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. . . .