Feeling out of poetry lately. (This usually means I have to go back to Mandelstam. Strange.) Anyway, here's another scrap from "Dove Street":

                  The dried-up leaf
  drifts from the tree
  like a sub-sub-librarian
  from the bookvault.  My muttering
  leaves the books behind, wanders away

   
                   under the sway of the amygdala. 

      
                                   *