by Daniel Bosch
“There is at least one spot in every dream at which it is unplumbable—
a navel, as it were, that is its point of contact with the unknown.”
So many tourists have touched the Botero’s dick
It gleams like a ship’s brass bell,
Its patina circumscribed by an adoring public.
Why do so many touch its concise prick?
Some long for home; some drive a stick;
One-stroke, one-cylinder engines cast their spell.
Even the locals are touched by Botero’s schtick,
Sound as a ship’s brass bell.
About the Author:
Daniel Bosch’s poems and translations have been published in journals such as Poetry, Slate, The Times Literary Supplement, Agni, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The New Republic and The Paris Review. He was Poetry Editor at Harvard Review for issues 19 and 20. In 1998 he was awarded the Boston Review Poetry Prize for a set of poems riffing on films starring Tom Hanks, and his first collection of poems, Crucible, was published by Other Press in 2002. Recent essay-reviews by Daniel can be read at Artsfuse, Contemporary Poetry Review, The Critical Flame, The Rumpus and The Fortnightly Review. He lives in Chicago.