The Poetry of
Jack Scott

Into Exile, Unto Home

A shiver in this tropic.
A splinter in this flesh.
If I could remain
I’d heal, be free.
Not up to me.
The draft from wallet
chills and begs
(no beggar’s ever free).
And so from faraway-
now nearing-
I go
into exile
unto home.

311 ®Copyright 1973 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.