Uncle History is shaving:
Each subtle hair, half formed
Is an idea never
Realized—he knows
His hairs are avenues
Of chance
What might have been
Drops into the sink
He laughs
To think of stubble-rubble
Given all the massacres
The war crimes
He can at least
Cut off remembrances
At his mirror
He’s the anti-Proust
All he has to do now
Is run some water
And minuscule horrors
Will go down the drain
Planet of the Blind 