The trouble with “being” history
Is that your blood is everywhere—
In fact there’s too little for the heart
In turn this affects premonitory moods
Stepping around puddles
Uncle history has to look down
Before he can look up
The unknowable is known
“This is terrible” he thinks
“Where’s the Aeolian harp?”
But the wheel of history
With solidifying blood
Turns with
And without him
With its tumbrel squeaks
Planet of the Blind 