Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2017    fiction    all issues


Cover Marija Zaric

Kathryn Merwin
For Aaron, Disenchanted
& other poems

William Stevens
Celestial Bodies
& other poems

Kendra Poole
Take-Off, or The Philosophy of Leaving
& other poems

AJ Powell
Mama Atlas
& other poems

Matt Farrell
Waves in the dark
& other poems

Timothy Walsh
Eating a Horsemeat Sandwich at Astana Airport 
& other poems

Nancy Rakoczy
& other poems

Joshua Levy
Venezuela Evening
& other poems

Ryan Lawrence
Vegan Teen Daughter vs. Worthless Dad
& other poems

George Longenecker
Yard Sale
& other poems

Susanna Kittredge
My Heart
& other poems

Morgan Gilson
& other poems

Jim Pascual Agustin
The Annihilation of Bees
& other poems

Taylor Bell
Browsing Tinder in an Aldi
& other poems

David Anderson
Continental Rift
& other poems

Charles McGregor
The Boys That Don’t Know
& other poems

Cameron Scott
Ashes to Smashes, Dust to Rust
& other poems

Kenneth Homer
Inferno Redux
& other poems

Alice Ashe
& other poems

Kimberly Sailor
Marriage's Weekly Schedule
& other poems

Kim Alfred
Soul Eclipse
& other poems

Writer's Site

Cameron Scott

Ashes to Smashes, Dust to Rust

Ashes when my lips consume sun.

Ashes when everything goes up in smoke.

Ashes when I walk through last night’s fire

and in their singing am singed, in their burning

burnt. Ashes to bless tomorrow’s tomorrow.

All this green world, ashes lifted from earth.


Smashes when I dream the dream of windows.

Shattered snippets of conversation.

Strawberries, blossoms of red, sonic booms.

Black holes. Broken bones. God is made of glass

and porcelain. Glasses of wine, wafer thin.

Smash the glass. I am waiting, waiting.


Again the dust, again ground down. Devils

twist in wind, wrap in the robes of saints.

A sudden thirst for lime and water. Mouth a husk

of bread and dust. Rising, falling, settling; binding,

blinding. Dust is the decoy of lesser gods.

Motes rise from every step like breath.


Rust as iron as softening as butter and flour.

Over time, fizzes, flakes. Over time tickles

freckles, curls tongues, locks jaws. To stretch

too far. To tumble into love’s numb after life.

To listen too much to Neil Young and Crazy Horse.

Live. Living. As good as an object of affection, rust.

Irrevocable Year of the Ranger

The world claims itself as a flat screen. My truck dies every night in the phantom

light and refuses to start in the morning. Kicking tires does nothing. Closed fist.

Open fist. Tinker’s fingers. A thousand false starts might mean a thousand more.

All I want at night is to be swept away in a birth of dreams. The morning is just

morning. Is just the sweet dreams of birth of a swept away night, of a thousand false

starts, of a fist hot as a small sun. Unable to open. Unable to close. Again to tinker

and turn into a kick-a-long tire. In the morning’s first refusal of phantom light

my truck is flat as a spatula and all I want at night is to be swept away by a round

world, in a round of dreams, in the phantom light of morning’s birth. But the world is

closed. Open. Flatly. Claims order. Claims disorder. Refuses to start, refuses not to.

Bus Poem Revisited

Dreams are born of common faces. This

bus an accordion which collapses on

corners as riders bury themselves in

electronic screens. How many hungry

gods live in our fingers? Each light’s fairy

luminescence, beneath each bridge a troll,

the innumerable scrawl of spray paint.

Who is an adept, which a plastic shell

among the blue velvet faces of the interred?

The Law of Averages

It washes over like waves, some wicked equation.

Breaking the overhead light while fluffing the comforter.

Fly rod snapping in half inside the ferrule.

Alternator dying three hours from the nearest tow truck.

So what? Appointments pass in twos, in threes,

in night sweats and tightening chest,

as prescription pills, parking tickets, no shows.

Toxins creep through pipes, accumulate. A hornet’s nest

or stroke or misstep. Everything wants transportation.

A creeper wave. A kind of awe. When it crashes upon us

we become drenched in a kind of magnetism.

The law of averages catches up, a spin cycle, an undertow.

Brief shimmers turned inside-out, nothing but lint, burs

stuck in laces, bodies left breathless in bed.

Bless the Last Words Standing

Bless missing s’s

how the wind carries us

impossible distances, (cats)

in brackets, questions without answers

and things that are broken

and broken-open in reverberation

like fists that find fingers

or misgivings in the heart

that flake apart like alfalfa.

Cameron Scott was recently awarded The Blue Light Book Award for his second book of poetry, The Book of Cold Mountain. He received an MFA in poetry from the University of Arizona and currently implements Fishtrap Story Lab, In the summers he is a fly fishing guide for Taylor Creek Fly Shop in Basalt, Colorado. If you have leftovers, he will eat them.

Dotted Line