You have to be quick
To catch Uncle History
At his desk
It’s not really
His desk—
Think of it
As a plank
After a shipwreck
Or the whole world
Of a glowworm
Or the needle
Of Jefferson’s barometer
The tongue
Of an orphan’s shoe
The blade
Of a ceiling fan
In the abattoir
In the end
It down’s matter
What you think
Because of course
He’s been there
And gone
But there’s a chill
And a scent of roses
Yeats thought he knew
What this meant
Planet of the Blind 