More Sonnets At Christmas IV

Gay citizen, myself, and thoughtful friend,

Your ghosts are Plato's Christians in the cave.

Unfix your necks, turn to the door; the nave

Gives back the cheated and light dividend

So long sequestered; now, new-rich, you'll spend

Flesh for reality inside a stone

Whose light obstruction, like a gossamer bone,

Dead or still living, will not break or bend.

Thus light, your flesh made pale and sinister

And put off like a dog that's had his day,

You will be Plato's kept philosopher,

Albino man bleached from the mortal clay,

Mild-mannered, gifted in your master's ease

While the sun squats upon the waveless seas.