David Rivard Poems

I've died enough by now I trust
just what's imperfect or ruined.I mean God,
God who is in the stop sign
asking to be shotgunned, the ocean that evaporates even
...

A curtain bellying like a pregnant cloud, warm white
light refracted through a tumbler of peat-smoked scotch—
a scorcher of a day at cooling end, with stupendous berries
to eat in lieu of supper, the scoffed pint box of blueberries
...

The moon in time lapse sliding over skyline
the way a remote frisbee might wheel through air
as slowly as a banjo once floated across the wide
...

A bookkeeping man,
tho one sure to knock on wood,
and mostly light
...