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.