Kat Dixon

go anywhere; I’ll dream you where you are

I dream you into an airplane.  The airplane does not falter or the airplane does
falter and you                   fall         fall         fall             and remember what I told you over
breakfast until you land in a field of accidental geometry and are famous.

The cat meows.  I say – no really, I’m always awake this early – and feed her.

I dream a knock on your highest window and a less imaginative way of saying good
morning.  I dream you keep our sign language in your shoes and forget them
on the subway.  I dream you with longer hair than you’ve ever actually had.

The cat meows.  You say – poor deaf thing – and feed her.

I dream you with a lisp.  I dream you say things like      UNBELIEVABLE      in big letters.
Tell me which worlds would go spinning if I could disregard repair and come
to you.  – and how I only used to pocket you and now how

I keep you in the refrigerator to look at on breaks.  I dream you on a Ferris wheel.
I dream you not on a Ferris wheel.

The cat meows.  I say – now are you listening? – and feed her.

I dream in several shades of alphabet – do you remember when I forgot your name and we
didn’t speak for three days?  I dream all good things.  Including sleep, which is only

half good.  I dream you driving against traffic with a fever and a spider in every pair
of pantyhose I’ve ever thought to buy.  I dream you sleepwalk into all of your bad habits.

The cat meows.  You say – poor deaf thing – and feed her.

I dream you an almanac for when to wash your socks.  I dream you into the earth or down,
down under the stairs. I dream you into my bed.

I dream myself an ambulance.  You bring your disease:

Kat Dixon is poetry editor of Divine Dirt Quarterly and author of Kississippi (Gold Wake Press 2009) and Planetary Mass (Dancing Girl Press 2010). She may be found blinking atwww.katdixon.weebly.com.