W. Luther Jett


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
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.



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