The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Breathless Heaven

If I were to forget to inhale,
no matter, just the reflexive
spasms of protoplastic perception
sans the fatty membrane that
adjudicates the admittance of
lesser proteins and that bit of salt
that nucleates a greater cascade;
my vacuoles gobble up the ionic
so the yellow afterglow may exude
a more cerulean hue though bespotted
by sanguine pearls caught in the
cream of ascending beyond hunger
a deprivative exfoliation of
realities fallen short, theorems
without rigor dying into faintly 
lit shadows and the fog of
angel breath on the silver plated;
you were right to look across
and not down or to the right, for
chin-lifting is a gentle art of
love gilded with patient ardor
and I so love to puff my lungs
into a gasp of dramatic affectation
hoping the feather-weighted-balance 
may tip not astray but just a bit 
my way.
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