Dana Gioia Poems
|4.||Emigre In Autumn||1/3/2003|
|5.||Guide To The Other Gallery||1/3/2003|
|7.||Do Not Expect||1/3/2003|
|8.||California Hills In August||1/3/2003|
|10.||The Lost Garden||12/20/2011|
|11.||The Sunday News||1/3/2003|
|12.||The Burning Ladder||12/20/2011|
|13.||Sunday Night In Santa Rosa||12/20/2011|
|15.||Planting A Sequoia||1/3/2003|
|17.||The Next Poem||1/3/2003|
|20.||The Country Wife||1/3/2003|
|21.||Thanks For Remembering Us||1/3/2003|
Money is a kind of poetry.
- Wallace Stevens
Money, the long green,
cash, stash, rhino, jack
or just plain dough.
Chock it up, fork it over,
shell it out. Watch it
burn holes through pockets.
To be made of it! To have it
to burn! Greenbacks, double eagles,
megabucks and Ginnie Maes.
It greases the palm, feathers a nest,
holds heads above water,
makes both ends meet.
Money breeds money.
Gathering interest, compounding daily.
Always in circulation.
Money. You don't know where it's been,
but you put it where your...
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