Before I sleep I dream of snow
in bright New England winter. There
snowed-in one night, Cage says: Let go
of words. And so we argue till
the dawn, John the fun Buddhist freak
armed with his silent piano, and Bill

the young companion of the lost
magician and his unheard notes.
And then I dream of Robert Frost
reading the Odyssey in Greek,
who lets the Georgics guide his plow,
this crude farmer of bloom and bleak.

Cage and I scream. Fields are white glow.
Out together, John points at fresh
wordless deer track printed on snow
and waves goodbye. Critics call Frost a boor
and populist, but after lunch
we stroll up to the old man’s moor.

These old New England friends of night
now sleep deep yet also tease me
for fearing their world of black light.
Before I sleep I watch a way
to let peace come. It won’t and sun
pops in with a gold wordless day.