The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Time travel

Now am I
at Pemaquid point,
in a youthful, Impressionist painting
stepping across flounders to
set up canvas and oils
dripping in the hot sun
many colors upon the 
rocks and crag, sweet
pools of crustacean magic,
dripping sweet
sweat upon virgins
as the wavelets dapple
at our feet, one can
almost see a whale
exhale the salty breeze
and blow ancient
dreams onto the woven matrix
as we play in color
and knife cruel textures
as baudy jokes to capture
our summer vista.
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