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