Dan Rosenberg

Laughter Wrecks Your Mission

Your cubes, your black egret
dancing upward like blue-green suddenly
feels lighter. Inside the canister
cool rain falls.

Bumble me
like the first plague of laughter
wrecks your mission. I think
it is not a mercy. The wrong blackness
is a ruse clipping my fear.

Why the empty spaces
both belong to you.
Why the slow price
is distance, is mortar.
But who's really counting?
There are murmurs in the corners,
murmurs in the floods, but the eyelids
can rise and beat down upon light.

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