I Doubt If You Can

I've Written Some Poetry I Don't Understand Myself.

Come Clean With A Child Heart Laugh As Peaches In The Summer Wind Let Rain On A House Roof Be A Song Let The Writing On Your Face Be A Smell Of Apple Orchards On Late June.

I Have In Later Years Taken To Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, In An Elemental Way.

And How Should A Beautiful, Ignorant Stream Of Water Know It Heads For An Early Release — Out Across The Desert, Running Toward The Gulf, Below Sea Level, To Murmur Its Lullaby, And See The Imperial Valley Rise Out Of Burning Sand With Cotton Blossoms, Wheat, Watermelons, Roses, How Should It Know?

Lay Me On An Anvil, O God. Beat Me And Hammer Me Into A Steel Spike.