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All your soul talk has tormented
The skin, this sun-shambled wrap.
The frame within creaks at bending

Points, nothing the rest of you
Can do but grin and bear out
This anguish of bones. Sticky-

Note to self: forget the eternal,
Focus instead on the steps at your
Feet, the door before you, turn

The brass knob, enter the dark shell
Of the sky, tumble of stars, smell
Of rain far off, moist thread of memory

As if you had lived for a thousand
Years in many places, though now here
As flesh and bone again, comparing

Raindrops of Persia and pacific atoll
And small town Michigan, sweet haunts
Body knows by step, soul by rights.


Jon Ballard’s poetry has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Earth Review, The Valparaiso Poetry Review, Barnwood Magazine, The MacGuffin and many others. He has two chapbooks forthcoming in 2007: Lonesome (Pudding House) and Sad Town (Maverick Duck Press). A Michigan native, he currently lives in Mexico City, Mexico.

© 2007, Jon Ballard

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