The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Overture to Night Embers

Fine is the splintered line
through which we plunge into absurdity
from the almost grasping of Moira's deed
or at least the lesser orbits of our mitosis
for funerals are far from free
though they may rouse an anthem
if not sapphire eulogies of diamond days
ersatz novelities under the same sun
do we toss everything authentic that etches
or recast it in a whiter crucible
testing its index and our temperment
alloyed by the river's flux
where we pan for rubies but find garnets
ablaze with a darker beauty
like fallen strawberries they beckon
for the chaster palate of monks
that subsist on ascetic melbas and
shed their robes to dance around the
burning of midnight effigies.
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