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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
Copyright © 2018 by David Baker. Used with permission of the author. “Physics of the Breeze” originally appeared in The Yale Review.
Weed-wrack and wild grape
hanging from the dusty trees
that touch above the narrow road.
I’m driving my way back
—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
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