South York

Dissolution

I

Plato is trying to navigate New York City in the rain.

He is bone chilled, soaked through,

Water flooding the ditches in his face. He buys a paper

(with drachmas, somehow) and holds it over his head.

II

Plato is trying to read the news

As it liquifies in the downpour. To him,

It doesn't matter that it's raining. He wants to grab Olympus

And shake the gods awake. He can waltz from person

To person, avoiding questions like a bar of soap caked

In Vaseline. See, Plato, I can't. I want to shake the heavens too,

Except what do I grab? My bookshelf has shifted from volumes of granite

To flimsy wood pulp, pressed tight and tied together. Plato can't read English.

III

Sometimes I think I can't either.

He keeps buying newspapers, the words softening into water,

Blurring into the pavement. They pool under the sidewalk,

pool in the ground beneath my feet.