The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Seashore whispers

Reclining on a beach towel
slowly sinking into ancient sands
the solar masseur beats my blades
to a rosy hue as sunglassed me
swims in the whisper of the waves
surfs across the back of 
the cascade of pelagic phonemes 
which gently fall into focus
as the tide of theta waves flows in
amid the random piques of 
the smelling salt breeze that tickles
gentler hairs unaccustomed to the
sticky grittily soft murmuration
of granules each singing their shape
like some foreign accent we can't
quite pick up through the vowelling
of the tide raving against the 
coriolis of discoball Ra, a deluge
sanded into the cool froth of
a savory stone soup that smacks
my tongue as I lick my dried lips
and spit the errant zircon back
into the abyss of time.
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