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. . . .

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Called Into Play