Gravel

David Baker

1954 –

Weed-wrack and wild grape
hanging from the dusty trees
that touch above the narrow road.
I’m driving my way back

—rough passage over gravel—
back the slow miles over
the creek, the lapsed meadow
we walked for arrow points

until the road narrows to path.
I park the car. I pick my step
past rusty barbed wire through
a clearing to the house.

Back the house. Back the years.
Back with him now with me
over broken floorboards,
stone footers, the pot stove—

a whippoorwill, years distant
through the paneless frames.
Half a staircase leading up
over the century of beams.

Back now again the old road
disappearing through white woods,
where he lay down and breathed
no more.

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

David Baker

2019

Storm Psalm

Dear darkness. Dear where we bow our heads in disbelief.
     Dear disbelief, hardly bow our heads and
hardly speak, so we sing, such words as darkness
     shows us how on days on end. So I sing it is
not hopeless. Hurry hurry. Nor faithless—to stand
     without faith, keeping open—. Now another
so they say, thus the trees utterly are still, and the wind is,
     and what wings there are utterly still in limbs
darkened above the barn. Bow down, for this darkness
     now above cedars. Smell of mint and tincture of

David Baker

2018

Physics of the Breeze

A slight wrinkle on the pond as he said

all that’s left of this life is what remains

for the next three redwings motionless now

atop cattails are match tips soon enough

to strike out this evening on one black flame

David Baker

2018

Poems

Gravel

More by this poet

Air Of

Storm Psalm

Physics of the Breeze

Poems

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Gravel

More by this poet

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