sat. morning
tired, been up since three, and now its nine
in terrys car, moving onto a secondary highway
barbwire fences, and
blank white fields

lynn the writer, and jeff who speaks russian
behind me
the rolling words, the deluge that happens
when you find common humainty

a murder of crows, on a telephone line
resting in the fields
i start with a few lines of frost,
and forgetting the 2nd stanza
jeff starts in

we finish it together

latter, by subterfuge,
he prints carefully,
nothing gold will stay ?

a warning, a hint ?
a sputter of nervousness-
or the only other frost he knows

talking to him, we recite lines
of stopping by a woods on a snowy evening
and two roads diverged

and after dinner, i walk to the dorms
and look up
the birch and pine, a net to hold the stars
and black sky/white snow

the bite of cold
alone for half a minute

i remeber years ago i underlined the last words of snowy woods
and wrote carefully beside them-
death
the miles and miles to go before you sleep
is not death,
it is awe,
and there is no need to be caught in the cold
when there is a boy nearby who knows the allusions