Kat Dixon


I sizzle at the corners,                     invaluable

                to your religion;                                              you stand
christ like in your socks                               one T too many
                                                                                                                for a thief.
I un-develop   /         understand why you come from Buffalo
                              : here are items wrapped in plastic,
                                  a hurricane with my name,
                              all folded dollars spent in the washing machine.

Do       you       feel        collected                  in the same We that brushes

               our gums into nothing
?                                                                               You have seen me as all-elbows
                                           a biography read under the kitchen counter
(how you were a metric ruler and I was on the tip of a tongue)

(too much pink in your skin)

It isn’t that I’d rather be without you.
What keeps us from falling in is a row
of yet baited hooks, instinctively warm
in the manner of objects removed from the body.

The lake grows something coniferous,
whistles green through its fingers
with the information that a mountain has been

withheld. (The R who writes letters and the R who
responds are not always the same : in this
way we cannot be a lake or any rounded
cell.) There is a pitted organ

twined into the dock’s levitated
infrastructure, an unmentioned variation
in the connotations of cycling and recycling.

Kat Dixon gardens short-cuts in Atlanta and may be occasionally found blinking at katdixon.blogspot.com.

Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in blossombones, Indefinite Space, Clockwise Cat, Madswirl, and elsewhere.

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