Uncle History imagines a world without words
He knows that the place would kill him
So he’s essentially suicidal
Persistent too—keeps thinking
No language
People free to do as they wish
His face darkens like Rousseau
The prospect
A planet minus nouns
No one to keep track of things
And Uncle’s grave unmarked
Perhaps an old mule walking there
To nibble the grass
He just can’t snap out of it
He knows he should
He knows lots of things
That’s the trouble
Planet of the Blind 