I heave my morning like a sack
of signs that don't appear,
say August, August, takes me back...
That it was not this year...
say greenness, greenness, that's the link...
That they were different trees
does not occur to those who think
in anniversaries.
I drive my morning like a truck
with a backsliding load,
say bastard, bastard, always stuck
behind him on the road
(although I saw another man
in a distinct machine
last time a Dentressangle van
was on the Al4).
I draw my evening like a blind,
say darkness, darkness, that's
if not the very then the kind...
That I see only slats...
say moonlight, moonlight, shines the same...
That it's a streetlamp's glow
might be enough to take the name
from everything we know.
I sketch my evening like a plan.
I think I recognise
the Norbert Dentressangle van...
That mine are clouded eyes...
say whiteness, whiteness, that's the shade...
That paint is tins apart
might mean some progress can be made
in worlds outside the heart.
