The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Luminescence

Whence the glow or warmth of living things
Golden pools of honeyed cream overflowing
Into the sweetness of meadowflowers and afterdew
And the petrichor of our momentary substance
How feels the form and shape barnacled with
scarry moles and the wirey bristles of old men
once juicy with peachfuzz and trichomic goosebumps
the old hide may be neuralgic but not numb
though sensation is riddled with phantoms and fairies
the old soul wields collections of databases
like some master AI that struggles to avoid word salad
and not offend or titillate the young who so
easily loose their spunk and cling 
to indulgences we utter prophetic admonishments 
in unspoken tongues watching the train 
hit the truck at a million frames 
per second, the seasons turning ever faster
until converging they appear unmoving
and we look up at death approaching and
beckon our friend for tea, for we have spent a life
waiting for our turn.
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