The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Day of the Dead

When will the fever pass?
Delusions wrapped in gold ribbons,
Dressed in a chimera of swaddled santas
Another night of mercurial madness
gives way to a snowy blindness
desparately rewriting the myths of
youth and glee.

Imbibe the nog and stare into the log
you are getting sleepy
you have tantrumed all day and now
time has ticked past the last ember.

Don't move, your bones are dry and
crack from the wince of each desire
Your body waits patiently for you
to return from Narnia or whereever
it is we fancy ourselves on
the eve of the Passover.
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