David Baker

Jan 27, 2025 | newyorker.com | David Baker

How many stories among the stars. The boats come in. The boats go out. Our friend is dying. He writes,he says, more often. Yet more sparely. Now to see what wasn’t seen before. We stay up all night again to scanthe sky from our deck above the bay. until, it seems, we’ve lost all count. Soon we’ll go, too. Star, therefore, to start. A cargo freighter pulls across the waters. We can tell from the placement of the lights,the slow procession of it all. And so it’s dawn. Did I say invincible? I mean invisible.

May 6, 2024 | poetryfoundation.org | David Baker

The first of dawn. The silver rain from hours ago still tipping off the lowest leaves—and along the sky’s edge at the grass line, a pink light foxing now, running to new shadows—                                                              amplitude, discarding beauty and death as unequal to the moment—With sandpaper and caulk we’d worked the bad wall.

Mar 21, 2024 | audiofilemagazine.com | Leif Enger |David Baker |Lydia Millet |Xe Sands

This month, we can’t wait to hear from the one and only Dame Judi Dench, who reflects on her storied career on stage and screen and on the bard himself. Plus, literary fiction, new nonfiction from a popular historian and from a passionate activist, teen romance, grown-up romance, and explorations of the natural world.

Jun 18, 2023 | imagejournal.org | David Baker

Why so sad? To which the other turned toward the lake. —-Blue glaze-like sky. Cobalt with sun seams. Like ceramic,lately thrown. That’s not it. Wind in the miniature crab. —-And a thousand tiny apples, scrubbed with first dew, shakingand dripping, each the size of a wren’s heart. That’s—-not it. No, after it has sung. In alarm. Trying to attract. Flown now into another yard, another tree. What do you—-mean sorrow is unsafe when it is real sorrow. Hear themsinging? They are gone. You can still hear them singing.