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 2006-7 by Cook Communication