Jonathan Ballam > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

your tender finger could be wrong

a steady tradition chases them into trains, buries the religion

my jaw gets stuck for a word only the birds heard

i've been collecting personalties rather than a sense of sublime fashion

i can�t chat at supper, or mutter at weddings

i listened to the electric stars

my toothbrush a slender finger

it would split open under the pressure and spill its insides into the rest of the liquid

the breeze of our breathe whisked hair, tears, and tremors

sinking into sepia in the photographs