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 Don't doubt it when the core samples prove how pleasing it is
to be woken by a baster's rain at dawn, cool grass wet with the
benign. Your tormentors are yet to be born, or fell asleep a millennium
ago. Your beauty is the beauty that does not dispense with struggles--it
wears loafers the color of gun-metal, a face full of second thoughts,
eyes you'd like to believe are supernatural. Agreed: aspiring to
eyes of a color not found in nature is very lace-curtain Irish, and you
do resemble one of Yeats' twilight boys, the walk cold from
counting house to pub, the Easter Rising over--but the purpose of your
days isn't simply to meet cute, it's to be changed. We inherit
a marshalling yard full of dark freight, but the track switches work.
How much of whomever you are after all is who you were when you were the
stony theologian of Westport Harbor? Maybe in a quiet moment in the
backyard today you'll look at a spray of tea roses leafing out and
hear the rain inside them whenever a breeze blows. Don't let
possibility go away in pain. 

DAVID RIVARD is the author of five books of poetry, including Otherwise Elsewhere, Sugartown, and Wise Poison, winner of the James Laughlin Prize from the Academy of American Poets and a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Award. Among his recent awards is a fellowship from the Civitella Ranieri Foundation in Umbria in 2012.

photograph by Jennifer Flescher
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Title Annotation:twelve poems
Author:Rivard, David
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jan 1, 2013
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