Ink Tea Stone Leaf

Plato said it once, or might have said
we wake in darkness, born as if some whole
bone were brusquely dropped on an old floor,
with empty holes for eyes to watch the lights
gavotting on the wall — he may have meant
it otherwise, I can’t be sure, I haven’t
read the scrolls he scribbled epsilons
and sigmas on, but under all there must
be skeletons, there must be a hard part
awaiting sense, remembering soft touches,
gathering coarse ash upon its surface,
surely there are words to this effect?
Would any grey philosopher lend me
a form to hang my shadow puppets from?