The Norbert Dentressangle Van

 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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