Y.S. LEE

Platonic

       for many odd things
       are stowed under the overthinking
                     –Mary Ruefle

I never studied philosophy.
Too many white men petting beards,
owning every maybe. It’s okay
to be a hazy baby. I began
with cave-echo, blunt scent of stone,
pop and lick of a well-fed fire. I learned
the lightning of a new idea, green fields
of a stranger’s brain, curiosity like lust.
The beardos presume incorrectly.
Cave-people don’t cower at shadows,
we inspect them. We’re not blinded
by sunshine; we bathe in it.