The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Adancing Bare

Don the red fez
and spin the long vertigo into
a golden orbit, turning like
an organ grinder, tiptoes 
deftly fall between mouse traps; 
digits in a light drizzle
twist between the ebony veneer and
slender trunks of wainscot
that gird in the hairy tame
yearning to unshackle the inner
amoeba and tireless phage;
one settles for a seat upon
the red ball that wanders
inscrutably around the circle
in farcical doodles of 
sacred signs of what we all know
without words jingles about
to the scent of roasting peanuts
and the dazzle of cotton candy 
puddles
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