The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Privilege of Having a Soul[1]

What animus stirs in my heart 
at the bragging of the animated!
For even limestone whispers in the night
to the mossy itinerants that bed in her arms
after the sky sings an amber lullaby,
and do we suspect our dreams are not 
visited by karmic temptresses we
birthed from our capricious dalliances,
daytime poured over us by a mother bathing
her soiled imps stained by their night emissions
we are baptised by a thousand baptists
tending like handmaidens to preen us with
physics and forces that act naturally enough
that we need not mask our eyes in the bosom
of our milky rapaciousness; do we then offer
our thanks rancid with condescension and
assumptions about the eyelessness of our
environmentals, such sweet atmosphere that 
carresses our lungs was never meant 
to be expelled in the arrogant nomenclature 
of the blessed enrobed whose coffers are
as empty as the vacuum of space which 
forever rumples and turns when tickled by
ionic passages and the resonance of the
glass harp spheres cavitating with life
epicenterless and gently expanding
in one soft and undulating wave of infinite 
layers, the great Baklava baked with
cosmic ferment, as gaseous as evanescent,
let us kiss with our humility this 
plentiful pillow on which we bed.
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