Cat Dixon

You find yourself in landlocked New Mexico

after finishing the maze on the back of the cereal box.

With pinkeye, turquoise, and an empty flask

you ponder the amount of floating.

You can’t lose you—you don’t know how.

Let the fires burn. Stay as long as you want.

Under the sea, the bluefish gather to glow and burn.

Let them sink—you can do whatever you want.

You poke holes with a stick in the mud

cursing society—society is everywhere.

You find yourself airborne with the purple sky.

You float on wisps—it doesn’t matter where you are.

The firepit is a tarpit is a sunset is a pair

of sunglasses—the bourgeois demand brand names.

You’re in New Mexico—you didn’t know where

else to go. The water tower is a dance floor.