Wealth of the Worthless
A reading by the poet

Gold is so awfully golden; heavy;
with more, yet heavier it grows;
the caught bend, under its obligation,
bound utterly to bear it, borne down.

Shame, and dope, and cancer can be cast off
with effort enough and will and failure unfailing –
but not that seizure of gold in the damned-man’s heart:
no sufficiency; not ever; pelf begets pelf.

Avid man is lost; wholesome though he may seem:
Yet he is not, with that live parasite of gold in him;
He measures his worth in gold, but his own: he is owned by it.