What is romanticization when the great antagonisms
Rise like dying irises
Out of porcelain pitchers gilded silver by the Japanese art of repairment?
Rainbows sprout from the natural membranes
Out of these things, out of these moral blisses,
And now comes the blonde maiden we had named Kismet,
Shawled in white and seafoam
To tell you what is and what is not meant to be.
Perhaps this may have been a metaphor for hope-
Amusing and attracting the solitaries-
Into traveling the passages only they as solitaries can travel.
Perhaps she, it, has always been here.
But does it fly, does it have wings?
Can it link impermanencey and the longing of it
To the transcendent?
No? I, for one, had thought so.
O tell me, dying irises,
Oracles of gray-indigo,
Foreknow this life's romanticizing and our great antagonisms.
What do we do with them?
