Samuel Amadon


A rod runs through something like me I find
Deep in the Georgia pine, while your news 
Gets into my french fries on the side of I-95,
Where I ask whether the hills will look as blue
When we cannot talk any longer. I’ve done it
So I see myself disappear in the mixture,
Like a bridge flat in the grass bites into
The me and you of here. A gravity wagging forth.
There are more things I’ve heard you someone say,
Weaving in our eyes, wreathing round our bodies
In the hum of things which are alive and stay
That way. That you or I become by a habit aloft,
We extend into ourselves, over the lifting sea,
A light perceived about us as we leave.

SAMUEL AMADON is the author of four books of poems, including Listener (Solid Objects, 2019) and the forthcoming Often, Common, Some, And Free (Omnidawn, 2021). He teaches in the MFA program at the University of South Carolina, and edits, with Liz Countryman, the poetry journal Oversound.

Issue Six
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