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. . . .