by Kate Garrett
Look up – trees branch like black
veins across the sky’s deepening
blue skin; I can’t hear the beat
of this word without a piece
of me shrinking –
there were things
sex & song couldn’t smooth
away, things pints of beer
wouldn’t wash off, despite his
heart making sixty promises per minute.
Maybe it doesn’t exist, a dream
like written and rewritten lyrics;
maybe it’s a distant
old thing, like stars. Redemption.
The way it bumps right off the tongue.
Boston Poetry Magazine 