Our Bard

The October 1998 edition of Poetry Magazine includes a piece by Michael Patrick Ball, which follows. There is no bio or other information beyond that he is from the United States of America. Does anyone else know of him?

The Machine of Tender

It turned about in sound
with twice-too many parts
for this clockwork world
that forgets to decide,
never spins to some stop.

The sharp moonbeam darts
on blossom sheets uncurled
for cool flesh, sparkling, while
warm hands warn: danger
of citrus lust's bitter rind.

The bright body of a stranger
who wept all night inside
my eyes instead of her own,
that sweet, dark traces
might meander, drip to a drop.

It fed a wide, white smile
on that starlit fuel, it was
poured out, alarmed, because
four hands and two soft faces
rode all around the night unkind.