Samuel Amadon


A blue and white rain fell on the plaza,
Like a ghost opened its mouth, and urged me,  
Take shelter. I ran under the roof slats,
Over the concrete wheelstops. I felt weak. 
I wanted my finger in earthy weeds—
A hummingbird sipping at the feeder.
But the days get harder , start to seem like
A wind blown out a parking lot city.
The story I told before, I told that.
No one said not to. I felt however 
I wanted. It was awful, like a dream 
Where the future brings the past back warm,
Leftover. Breathing out again, I fled
A thought like rain on what’s already dead.

Samuel Amadon’s recent collections are Listener and Often, Common, Some, And Free. He directs the MFA Program at the University of South Carolina, where, with Liz Countryman, he edits the journal Oversound.