Each H (II)

We are for the park, as we are for
enjoying its proximity to how
enjoying it for itself, as a park, is our

sign we are clearly thinking. On a tangent
as often as of two minds, but
then, perhaps, also another, and yet,

like pillows, I always feel I would be
more, if I could have more, which
makes me ask what gives us

over to giving ourselves, don’t end.
Don’t structure. If structure
is over, we could have had it

done. Like the seriousness become
a better secret as a secret
will gain more for it going on. From it

we would become strangers better
exchanging quarters in
the station, or elevator home to

my interaction with a mother asking her
child a question I happily
answered. We are so happy to know

something. We forget our place. How
winning has more
feeling. Then we count the ways.

More by Samuel Amadon

Without Discussion

What people said, what left the table dark.
None stayed inside the house, nor close around.
Each direction its direction bound.
Like when you leave the arcing thing to arc.
Like papers gather papers in the park.
We note the wind is what can't hold the ground.
While hearing transfer stations fill with sound.
And let the city alter a remark
a little further from explaining what
was meant. A creak again or just a creak
right then. Like leaning forward on the cart.
A structure falls to stay its every strut.
I'd like to speak. I said I'd like to speak.
And someone sighs, they broke the silent part.

Days of Future Dwell

A dance professor around
her white house, which
windowed, countered,
surfaced with keys, bags,

a listing a broker found
he was proud to sell.
As grass is covered
with grass that’s mown,

why not be happy again
to find your schedule in
your hand, and all things
well. The squirrels leapt

off the branch that fell.
The technical part with
all the pieces lining up,
or already there, at work:

a something to do with
why I pick the tack
from the floor, why I
finger it like a shell. Say

the songs get longer and
the days—all of it—you
can hear it all coming,
if you’ve tied to it a bell.

 

About this poem:
"For a long time, I couldn't understand how people could write in quatrains and still look themselves in the mirror. And now, for some reason, they just feel calm and right."

Samuel Amadon

Poem in July

I felt perfected along the rectangle 
By its ragged side

Fences trees and mist dropping
Some space for the flowers

I set an image in my head where
Bushes in their out of focus

Made a green dearth about the door
I wanted to do a book on

Pages left in the heat or rain
But my desire seemingly disappeared

Picked up by a car in the middle of
A pack of cigarettes

This trip into the forest
The trees trading with memory to

Frame the various breaks
The pleasures of small laws cut

Behind the mower with my eyes
Running the grass blades

We don’t really get any older
I can see what that means