Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry: <br />some flurries have whitened the edges of roads <br /> <br />and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: & <br />turkeys and old St. Nick: where am I going to <br /> <br />find something to write about I haven't already <br />written away: I will have to stop short, look <br /> <br />down, look up, look close, think, think, think: <br />but in what range should I think: should I <br /> <br />figure colors and outlines, given forms, say <br />mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is <br /> <br />behind what and what behind that, deep down <br />where the surface has lost its semblance: or <br /> <br />should I think personally, such as, this week <br />seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is <br /> <br />something going on: something besides this <br />diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I <br /> <br />could draw up an ancient memory which would <br />wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill <br /> <br />out my dreams with high syntheses turned into <br />concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust <br /> <br />for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition <br />and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite <br /> <br />perfected yet: the gods could get down on <br />each other; the big gods could fly in from <br /> <br />nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4 <br />interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess <br /> <br />I can jostle those. . . .<br /><br />Archie Randolph Ammons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/called-into-play/
