Not much happens. This is a long, dark story
And I will save it for another time. Inferences:
Time has passed; you were asleep; you will die.
These are not experiences. Inferences only.
You guessed time passed, you slept, you must die.
Not much happens on the bright, daylight side
Of the story either. One may itemize. (Jet,
Breeze, squirrel, doe, car turning around
At the trailhead and vanishing again.) Light
On the early autumn foliage offers clues
For inference and cues for leaving, but
Not much happens in the long, dark story.
Plato once composed a ridiculous analogy.
He imagined and asked us to imagine a ship
On which the captain was besieged by sailors
Who knew nothing of navigation but only
Wanted to seize the helm, in hopes of taking
The ship. Meanwhile, these ruthless idiots
Thought the true navigator a useless wordsmith
And star-gazer. Plato (pretending to be
Socrates) thus conceived the ship of state.
He meant, I suppose to flatter himself.
A navigator was a clever comparison
For a contentious philosopher, to be sure,
“See look, we with our heads in the stars
Are the ones really in the know, technicians
Of the practical means to reach shore.” But
On what ship ever was there neither knowledge
Nor respect for navigation? The buffoonish
Sailors and their captain are cartoons. I have
Tinkered with words and angered at stars
My whole adult life, and like pretend Socrates
I should know I don’t know at all where to go.
Not much happens, and then it all sinks at once
Or my ship comes in. One day. Maybe. Meanwhile,
Not enough happens out on the becalmed
Waves where the ghost ship without sailors
Tells stories to itself about true navigators.
Not enough happens to redeem what does.
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