The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Time Puzzles

Dong the tock of de Marigny's clock
beckons those who awaken
and stir their ablutions,
their molted exuditic dross,
into the refinements of cupellated
quicksilver and two puddles of phosphor
above a betoothed drain whose edges
smile as the kiss of now exsiccates
into an undiscovered archeology of
imaginary units that tease from a
walled garden of the asymptotic
though let me for a moment concentrate
patiently await borrowed clarity
swing from a great old tree between
foxglove and belladonna dreams
and let snap my corpulence into a
chastisement of those who would
remain too grounded to conduct a
more potent current or be the
Jacob's ladder for ascending angels
once lost souls whose broken bones
were strewn across purgatory
may be unpuzzlingly buried into 
a consummation of leper ash and
cream-laden honey while our 
stiff angles attract our voluptuous
mother to lean down and peer into
what a solitary individuality,
an atomic automaton if you will,
could scribble in her sands with
an argentine squib that is given
but a second to combust in self-jubilation
to mark her brow and invite her
to scratch the pruritic pock
with her long transmillenial digits
and drip spawn to investigate 
an apparent novelty in time.
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