I sat and watched a dream last night. It took
me to the city people wander when
they sleep. There are no streetlights there, but in
each left hand is a lamp; each right, a book,
and people hold their lanterns high to look
at what is written there. Some flames are thin;
they suffocate on breezes, sputter, spin
as helplessly as maggots on the hook.
I do not worry for the weak-flamed, though,
when any light at all prevents the shade
from each of many happy spheres. I fear
for those whose hearty fires snap and go
out in a gasp of gust, for those that fade
as fuel burns, as seconds disappear.
by John Lutz
Last year, the Editors of TBAW decided to officially split from Quiddity, heralding a temporary dry spell of fiction posts. After reviewing this decision, we have chosen to re-introduce fiction into TBAW, starting with this poem by contributor John Lutz. Expect to see more poems and short stories in the near future.