Fall fell: so that’s it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roadsand lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St. Nick: where am I going tofind something to write about I haven’t already
written away: I will have to stop short, lookdown, look up, look close, think, think, think:
but in what range should I think: should Ifigure colors and outlines, given forms, say

mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what isbehind what and what behind that, deep down
where the surface has lost its semblance: orshould I think personally, such as, this week
seems to have been crafted in hell: what: issomething going on: something besides this
diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: Icould 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. . . .