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The Norbert Dentressangle Van

by
 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.

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