Called into Play

　　by A. R. Ammons

　　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.