Dana Gioia Poems
|4.||The Burning Ladder||12/20/2011|
|5.||Sunday Night In Santa Rosa||12/20/2011|
|6.||The Lost Garden||12/20/2011|
|8.||Emigre In Autumn||1/3/2003|
|10.||The Country Wife||1/3/2003|
|11.||The Sunday News||1/3/2003|
|13.||Do Not Expect||1/3/2003|
|15.||Planting A Sequoia||1/3/2003|
|16.||California Hills In August||1/3/2003|
|17.||Guide To The Other Gallery||1/3/2003|
|18.||The Next Poem||1/3/2003|
|22.||Thanks For Remembering Us||1/3/2003|
Thanks For Remembering Us
The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they're not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.
The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small ...
The world does not need words. It articulates itself
in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the path
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.
The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.
The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.
And one word transforms it into something less or other--
illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal, covert.
Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of hands