photo at the beach of frothy and foamy water washing over and across sand in blended and contoured waves of brown, tan, and blue-black.

true story, when i was nine or ten
my father, at the time, sat me down
as fathers do, to read Plato’s Apology.
there had been a situation at school.

it was a public school and i was new.
it had to do with bullying and needing
to choose a side. well i guess a child
encounters force beside deliberation.

after i finished reading, he asked me
what Socrates would do. it was not
really a question. and i was no fool.
i said, but papa, i am not Socrates.

this morning, i woke up from a dream
about an oil spill. well the sign put forth.
it grew like coltsfoot in the broken step
where id removed an unbelonging one.


//

Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)

well i guess (oimai)

// 234β

ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι

//

previously