The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Lacking Substance

I bend before the long 
arch of your calculus
unarchitechturally myself
happy to pool between the fractured
places forever to mime in mimicry
swollen neurons mirror the cosmos
a single string to telescope to
your autopsy of your own archeology
wings pinned to earth, and I 
a dervish of dust and powdered books
almost too thin to maintain a name
am tickled by your ardent cataloging
of celestial movements and offer
coconut dates to ease your hunger.
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