The Poetry of
Jack Scott


The end of this earth
(best forget the others.)
may be near.
The dice are cast,
a vise is closing
upon life and choice.
I shuck myself down to my hull
of all of my protuberances,
shrinking to so straight and small
and slippery slim to squeeze
through the jaws of it
and later sneak back in.


470 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.