Breathing Days

Samuel Amadon

I don’t know where the air is coming from.
I stop my walk as if watching a fire
Slowly cease. I have a breath I breathe, or 
That’s what I keep thinking. I have nowhere 
To run. I’m in no one’s reach. The curb grass
Ground with its yellow stems is what I feel 
My fingertips in, out. On out, I turn 
My face to find which scent is dangerous 
When I breathe it in, I have a thought slip 
Across my hairs and skin, a person who 
You won’t understand when you read them
Until their poem ends. I’d smile at them, 
If my face weren’t lost in after-lights
Of days gone on no matter what one likes.