Said the Translator
Plato would be easier, said the translator, and thus,
Began the factory tour. One had to understand the language
Of Astro Turf dotted with cannons or the non-alcoholic joy
Subway-watching a woman two-finger such eyewear
Firmly up the bridge, all that rollicking uncertainty
Like a root beer. Who cares about splitting hairs
When what’s at stake is merely the history of robes?
The clock read 12:13, exactly when no seven were alike.
Yet, give him a pencil and the knotholes of other mouths
Make a soft hollow noise. But he knows everything he looks at.