The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Bathyspheric

Why does the sky serf 
toil to tread the earth
adorning feathers with lead bangles
so that foot may kiss 
the grounding where 
paths span into prairies
as far as the eyes may see
skipping from foot fall 
to foot fallen from dirigible heights
into the gray plumage of the woolen
and weary denizens of the dusty 
deserted caverns of complacency?

How else shall we spelunk into
that cold salinity beneath
bergs where strange bodies 
shift between the quixotic and 
chimeric in the slowest of shimmers
blowing mouth words into pearlescent bubbles
that say nothing until they surface breach
and we rush to capture their density
in poetic aerogels and nightmares
encapsulating them with inflamed excretions
struggling to birth pearls instead of 
bloody piles of gravel stones?
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