The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Serpent Sound

Is it the limblessness or the thermaflicking
or the romantic sound of slithering into a ball
forever grounded in an incessant swallow
glistening in the dampness of mousy dew
and the trampling of scorpions beneath the shoed
so trembles the ever-grieving of the nude.

In the unquenchable flames of water births,
bells resound around the bounds of buoyancy
bubbling against an ion-scarred scintillator
spiral vectors wriggling between outcrops
to be winnowed by a snake eyed roll.

Vision sighs greater than cuneiform mirrors
though awash with a cacophony of clever cons 
behind yazata-laden shadows of light
we goon with divine sandstone foot fetish.

Stygian rivulets in viscous slither 
weigh our finely grained corpulence
against a hawk feather's flutter.

The one-eyed trout leaps against
The flood of our ashen altars.

Embraced in echoes that elude.
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