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.
W. Luther Jett lives in Washington Grove, Maryland, and has published a chapbook of poems and original graphics, A Leather Dress Fur Mother. He began writing shortly after learning how to hold a crayon and started transcribing his ideas onto paper shortly thereafter. His poems have appeared in a number of journals, including The GW Review, WordWrights, Syncopated City, SynEsthesia, ABRAXAS, The Burning Cloud Review, Middle Class Review, and Main Street Rag, as well as in several journals published on the World Wide Web.
