Citroën 2CV.

A new, proud, tall christmas tree
poking out of a broken-down
green-striped Citroën 2CV
(just like Gail drove in nursery);

it’s evening: low tide, the new pair
aimlessly a-walking, no talking,
in tidal-dredged, dregged mud:
maybe I’ll love her, maybe I’ll love,

nerves blurred, no words stir—
silent pace, clouds laced deep
purple, pining for their black sleep;
pre-christmas, festive, as babes,

shimmering delicate, riverside dusk.