print previewback DAN ROSENBERG
The City
you have come all burnished
and unused to the kid-brother city
the city of strollers of gum
stuck to public sculpture like an edit
in the summer’s early shot
at saying something true you’ve come
ready in the brain with your three
pairs of gray shorts hungry
for a new gull to gargle out
the morning you’ve come under
the spell of daytime its wetness
kissing the sill where the A/C dumps
its coins around you and is that
sound a pair of squirrels flirting
in the summer’s overflow or a stray
bit of tree clattering across the gutters
undeterred in the city of youth
absconding to the hedgerow
to tangle they never imagined a city
could talk so deeply its wheezing
pressure systems rubbing leaf
to leaf an untranslatable weather
in your bones and you are the hallway
of jewelweed the Asian lady beetles
patrolling in their longing for salt
they may bite but it is not anger
it is not love the city asks for 
The City
The Field
New Food
Sonnet
Spacemen Specimen