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.