Dreaming of Socrates   I see him in his toga, and he smells like a foot soldier on campaign. He laughs at my perplexity and he tells me to hold it lightly. “Of course, you’re free   to think otherwise,” he says, and then laughs some more. It starts to rain, and yet he stays dry as chalk. He says, “Someday I’ll have to . . .” and his voice trails off, and in his gaze   I see myself, my failings and my shame. “No questions,” I plead. “No method.”                                                              “So why do you fear my questions?” he asks — the same thing he asked me last time, and again I   have no answer. His hair begins to burn, then his eyes, then his whole head is on fire but unconsumed. He smiles a smile that turns to smoke and everything’s burning, everything’s fire.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont April 2019