I feel mellow, welcome, full of mist as
Morning rolls its seasons through town, block on
Block opening almost a chill the air
Lays on my skin. Something I wear like yes,
We’re in balance: a muscle in my sleeve,
A breath in my breast, a book in my bag,
A thought in my text, one that knows my name,
What speed I go when I read, when I drive
Late in the night, when I find I’m alive—
I lose the sentence, when I don’t want to
Go home. I’m out at the diner, a cough
In the cold. This is a place that doesn’t
Close. It’s morning at night. I’m here. I’m here.
I’ll talk all day until I disappear.


Samuel Amadon is the author of Listener and Often, Common, Some, And Free. He directs the MFA program at the University of South Carolina and edits, with Liz Countryman, the poetry journal Oversound.