Here's a poem called "Apocalypse."
You know what apocalypse is, I hope--
revelation.
And I talk several times in this poem about the 60 of us.
These are my first cousins on my father's side.
There are actually close to 70, but I
don't want to be a braggart.
[LAUGHTER]
And this talks about a visit to Scotland,
where my former wife and I lived for a year.
And I taught at a senior secondary high school.
We took this trip on spring vacation
to the Isle of Skye, which you've read about
or haven't read about.
And the poem goes like this.
"Of all 60 of us, I'm the only one
who went to the four corners, though I
don't say it out of pride but more like a type of regret.
And I did it because there's no one I truly believed in, though
once, when I climbed the hill in Skye and arrived at the rough
tables, I saw the only other elder, who was a vegetarian--
in Scotland--
and visited Orwell, and rode a small motorcycle
to get from place to place.
And I immediately stopped eating fish and meat
and lived on soups.
And we wrote each other in the middle and late '50s,
though one day, I got a letter from his daughter
that he had died in an accident.
He was, I'm sure of it, an angel who
flew in midair with one eternal gospel
to proclaim to those inhabiting the Earth and every nation.
And now that I go through my papers every day,
I search and search for his letters.
But to my shame, I've even forgotten his name,
that messenger who came to me with tablespoons
of blue lentils."