The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Crème Fraîche

Drink your fill of blossoming verbs
and linger not on spilt libations
of earlier days when heroes were serious
and quim primed one's gallivant
or for me the quiver of arrows spilt.

Name not the children or the horse
that so faithfully thrust you into battle
or the brick that held up your rafters
or the spider who feasted on your fly
for they knew not what they did.

Crack the ovum into your cream 
and parsley your days with chives
pinch the lemon zest into a piquant aerosol
and dash with the most humble of salts
to make your peppercorns bright.

So we sip at our last brandied days
and push our plate from the table
inhale the cloudy liquor of whiskied tobaccoes
and count the silver armbands of days aviking 
or for me the golden sapphires of screed spelt.
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