Old photos don’t interest Uncle History
They’re too “newfangled”
He even has trouble
With statues
He likes to get face down
In the mire
Sometimes he prays
But its a naive thing, like wishing for rain
He smells the dirt
Talks to spiders
Has the Zen lonelies
No living thing really loves him
Being an abstraction
Is hard—its like being paint
But he’s OK for now
He’s gotten used to exophony
Since he’s never in the right language
Planet of the Blind 