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When we visit The Plato Museum
the exhibits all float like air
so idealized it’s hard to see ’em;
it’s as though there’s nothing there.
But, look! There’s the Platonic blender.
In its eternal, dustless splendor
it doesn’t mince, or beat, or mix
or perform other mundane tricks
to mar its undiluted essence.
No one drives the Platonic car.
At last we see things as they are
free of context and other messes.
Before too long, we’re out the door;
turns out, perfection is a bore.