Plato Dying

While the eyes adjust to dark,
The eyes, those cells of night, surprise
The murk itself with light, with lighter
Versions of the sloe-eyed shade, with eyes'
Inversion of the bark-wet dusk, the stiff
Black negative of noon itself, as if
How we live could change the dyes
That cancel or install the real, live
Lies of vision, the arbitrary drifts
Of science fiction through the sties
Of distance to the accidental cliff,
Where seeing is a line of credit,
An opposing view which gloom will edit
Down to black and white from a lens
Of adolescent day; because it ends,
An illusion is no less a vision,
Though: it's not in apparitions, but in sights,
In shadows from the sun,
That the seeing world delights.