The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Unnatural Instinct

When did we grow so gnarled and twisted,
how many hunts took from the tribe
before our vigor shriveled and 
we stared too long into the fire?

Did despondence punctuate our equilibrium
and turn our neurons upon themselves
with the need to spin myths and trickster
our way to greater spoils?

Was it not satisfying enough
to sink flaked flint into sinew
that we conjured softer stones
to capture our lusts for fecundity?

When did staring into the eye between our thighs
abhor the repetition of satiety and security,
casting us from edenplay into tohuvavohu's maw?

We took a vow of fidelity to dogma and turned
into ichor the endless silky whiteness of our 
endless perturbations.
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