Those who’ve lived before
that what was swollen, ominous
is now a hole, the concave present,
brimful of memories,
baits trolled within the trailing chum,
in the stream of consciousness
for what may happen, what may come,
materialize from mystery,
the out of mind and sight
which keeps fishermen fishing
for what they might someday catch.
The future collapses into the past
from a fault like a mind shaft
beneath concealing earth.
Family trees die not in falling,
but in landing heirlessly.
Buttercups beneath them perish
by being crushed.
Small things together are as loud
as large things as they break apart.
Stones moan before they clatter.
Some fish drown for lack of water
if they can’t catch breath in air.
620 ®Copyright 1972 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.