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.

Leaving and Leaving You

When I leave you postcode and your commuting station,
When I left undone all the things we planned to do
You may feel you have been left by association
But there is leaving and leaving you.

When I leave your town and the club that you belong to,
When I leave without much warning or much regret,
Remember, there’s doing wrong and there’s doing wrong to
You, which I’ll never do and I haven’t yet,

And when I have gone, remember that in weighing
Everything up, from love to a cheaper rent,
You were all the reasons I thought of staying,
And none of the reasons why I went

And although I leave your sight and I leave your setting,
And our separation is soon to be a fact,
Though you stand beside what I’m leaving and forgetting,
I’m not leaving you, not if motive makes the act.

Long For This World

I settle for less than snow,
try to go gracefully like seasons go

which will regain their ground -
ditch, hill and field – when a new year comes round.

Now I know everything:
how winter leaves without resenting spring,

lives in a safe time frame,
gives up so much but knows he can reclaim

all titles that are his,
fall out for months and still be what he is.

I settle for less than snow:
high only once, then no way up from low,

then to be swept from drives.
Ten words I throw into your changing lives

fly like ten snowballs hurled:
I hope to be, and will, long for this world.

The During Months

Like summer in some countries and like rain
in mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer,
like food for chefs, for invalids like pain,
You’ve occupied a large part of the year.

The during months to those before and since
would make a ratio of ten to two,
counting the ones spent trying to convince
myself there was a beating heart in you

when diagrams were all you’d let me see.
Hearts should be made of either blood or stone,
of both, like mine. There’s still December free -
the month in which I’ll save this year, alone.