The Poetry of
Jack Scott


Fishes, lovely fishes,
hardly ever seen,
minnows, tiny minnows,
hardly ever surface
to rub their backs
against the air.

Deep fishes glint
the softest flint,
against the softest steel.
The prospect of escape
less precious
than ecstasy of flirting
at the edge of sight
Water darts at water targets

Crystal murky space
Quicksilver in tea

Who sees?
Who is seen?
I see thee.

254 ®Copyright 1972 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.