When Uncle History sleeps
He doesn’t dream
But half awake
He sees things—
Edgar Poe
On laughing gas—
Anyway, he’s waking up
But he’s not quite back
And he sees feathers
White, lovely feathers
So perfect
Not sinister at all
Not hopeful
No Emily Dickinson
Just feathers
Floating
A sweet fascination
Before words come
And for a moment
No matter what Derrida says
There are only feathers
And no words for feathers
Over coffee
He won’t remember this
Not fully
Something about a single swan
It’s open ended
What happens
He’s strangely sad
Planet of the Blind 