“If money goes, money comes.

If money stays, death comes.

Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb?”

E. M. Forster

Melt down the money, take denomination’s tons

of sangfroid from its coffers

and unravel all the sold silk from its ropes,

so music can flood from gold cross

the very thresholds of the bar.

I mean the way it is, the wealthy have

to haul it everywhere, attached

to size and weight; they hold

long talks with watches, have

much truck with locks. The more they make

the less is warmable, in pockets

or by hand; so hands

are hired, and money-heaters, money-manacles;

the wealthy must get sick of all that

forethought, money being given

more to futures then to presents. If to have

insinuates to hold, you marry money

and you marry cold.

So take a slug of aquavit instead,

and drink your dearest, break the glass.

Didn’t the doctor tell us money comes

when money leaves? And don’t I love you

out of the question how much? Eventually

googols have no power, evil has no root; you grew

inside me and were small; you fell in love

and woke up towering. No one could keep us

in a number; baby won’t

make three, she’ll make

a million, if you’ll be

my moolah, quickest silver, all my change and buck;

and there can be no crib for money in the house, no bank

for sperm, no ergo for a sum. Death comes,

the doctor said, where money stays,

but everywhere the underwriters whisper

time is savable, love pays.