Reading the Parable of the Cave

while living in the cave,



black moss,

deadening my footsteps

candles stuck on rock-ledges

weakening my eys



These things around me, with their

daily requirements:



fill me, empty me,

talk to me, warm me, let me
suck on you.



Every one of them has a plan that depends on me



stalactites want to become

stalagmites

veins of ore

imagine their preciousness



candles see themselves disembodied

into gas

and taking flight


the bat hangs dreaming

of an airy world



None of them, not one

sees me

as I see them.