This is how we are:
Ignorant of Midas’ error,
Stubbornly, naturally dedicated to these bodies
And these minds
Of ours.
A white patron,
A black amasser,
And with such eyes,
It must be
Adept to see
Everything;
The past, the present, the coming, it ought to see
How it has risen from your dead flesh,
How it triumphs,
How it will turn to gold.
With those eyes,
It’s probably seen
A distinct mosaic portrait of the Holy Amalgamation
That could turn us all to gold.
We can ask the fly, of course,
But it is either dead
or gone.
But we know it knew,
As it had previously been, itself,
A fashion of philosopher’s stone
That is lost,
And needs our carrion
To surface.
