It wasn’t his fault that Uncle History fell down a well
He was in Sweden where lots of people fall into holes
He was in a utopian mood, trying to imagine a better future
No more epidemics, children fed, etc.
He even hummed a little tune—something insipid
But possibly catchy, the song
Of a traveling salesman maybe
And that’s when he tumbled
“This is not my fault” he said
It was an old well
An abandoned farm
The water waist deep
He repeated “not my fault”
Even so, he wasn’t alone
A white eel swam around his toes
It had been in the well its whole life
It was blind
“This is a metaphor for everything” he thought
When he realized he couldn’t get out
He shouted—aiming his voice up
At a sky colored hole
“This is the invention of prayer” he thought
How he got out we’ll never know
Planet of the Blind 