There is a spot in my eye,
a particle of interest,
a speck of attention.
My eye’s eye
is giving me trouble.
On my way out
I see . . . battlefields.
On my way home
I share wounds
with the terribly wounded.
Going to sleep
my lids are finality;
the responsibility for closing them
is far too much for any man.
290 ®Copyright 1972 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.
From Poemystic.com