The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Shape of the Shapeless

Are we not constellations of borrowed 
collisions, a beehive bashed upon the
tide cresting before it folds into
breakers embracing the waiting shore?

The mind buzzes with errata tailored
into a cloak of ermine and entropy
immaculately stitched into the fray
hung on a mannequin of rusty susurrations.

The cheek caressed is but an evanescent 
undulation collapsing beneath fingertips
while underneath a collective of motes
turn like a herd spooked by suggestion.

Only at the root of the sacred ruptures
lies the bastille of what orbits
an inescapable mass of aching becoming,
exuding cascades of glass filaments
graceful laces of resonant emotion 
settling to a nest of orbicular rings,
neurons solidifying from upheaval
patterning themselves into a helical
key unlocking the possibility of 
not surviving a paradigm unfit to
perseverate so that burgeoning 
topologies alien and unwieldy by 
our estimation may reverberate
across the silent frontier and stir
the naked desire of leviathan's eye.
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