The Innisfree Poetry Journal
www.innisfreepoetry.org
by W. Luther Jett
FLOOD TIDE
The encountered city has already happened in some half-dreamed confusion— where the room was too crowded and you went missing. Thick waters rose and the sky vanished. We were sailors without mission, drunk on prophecies and wild wine, cast up on dry land and no Ninevah to blame. Even our graves would not lie still. Avenues escaping into nowhere, lined with towers of vacant glass—the street names constantly changing—yellow dogs waiting hungrily on vestibules. Where you made your mark— faceless soldiers erased it. My last letter returned unopened. You already knew what it would say.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication
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