Air Of

—then lightly rubs the
                                          inside of her wrist

to wrist         the flower
                                          fullness         the furrows

like heirloom roses
                                          or attar crushed from 

weapons thrown aside
                                          the century gone

as though bound         now in
                                          not shame         not shyness

meanwhile         and lace cuffs
                                          making scent circles—




Phrases in italics are from "Black and Copper in a Crush of Flowers" by Carl Phillips.

Copyright © 2018 David Baker. Reprinted with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Autumn 2018.