The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Craquelure of Lightning

Though we glaze our bisque masks in celadon
we boast no faience[1] as our costume crazes
with the gentle stains of tea-stilled moments
watching spore clouds in an unperturbed sunbeam
borrowing essence from a low hanging breeze
as the sugar trading caravan of Matryoshka phages
blooms in the sated glow of botrytic clusters 
on which we sup until our cornucopia distends
ripe for jaguars to pluck from the moonless night
to find our bones netted in that spongy lattice 
of intermingled growth rings whose marrow 
butters the tongue of poets who eulogize 
what remains after our brief unholy hour 
a lingering lightning loosed so that 
the black hole of grief may escape into
a newly quasaric pulse to unstill Gaia's veins.
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