The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Eyeache

As I stand at the altar of browned bread
and top off yesterday's dark slurry 
I ponder reports of death tolls and
the tribal incursions of the day,
half my heart still enthralled in
yesterday's glitter when it dawned
on me that in the fix of a focus 
diamonds are but a mirror and fail
to sate the magpie eye for the
crests of ocean waves never cease
their play amongst the sunfire
and so our soul searches for 
the ripple of wavefronts and the
rings that gird our constellations
until the eye may sleep in the 
blackness of the planar deep.
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