Thursday, April 14, 2011

a poem by dan rosenberg


Giving up on the day, I climb to the roof
and spread-eagle. Birds choose
a representative to peck out my liver,
but I’m not interested in the role.
Go away. The gold capital dome
feeds the clouds like a giant nipple.
The clouds are no single thing.
I’m worried that my blood will go
where it must, completely unaddressed.
How can I be heard inside myself?
The shingles flap like mouths,
pathetic toothless mouths. I want
to cover them all. If I spread myself
thin enough, I can go totally limp
and their charades of speech will move me.
From high above, I might be said to ripple.

"Purpose" originally appeared in Pool.

Dan Rosenberg's poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in several journals, including American Letters & Commentary, Pleiades, Subtropics, and Thermos. His chapbook, A Thread of Hands, is available from Tilt Press. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, he is currently pursuing a Ph.D. at The University of Georgia and co-editing Transom.

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