The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Ukranial Nebula

I stand upon
the glass ceiling
a blackened roiling 
boil of a torrent
to those flowing o'er
or no more.

Even the Styx 
can be stilled
of its colloidal moment,
the truth precipitating
into an acrylic acuity
or cold congruency.

Shall I lift my
neuronal mirror to the
universal's movements,
watch the stories
of persons and mobs,
savage and grotesque.
or is it graceful?

Clarity only gives name
to the precipices upon
which we will surely
descend to reach 
our apogee
or denouement.
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