Let me go back to 1965
to 1965 – when the cows tripped through the spice roads
and cinnamon crumbled on the dining room table

to where the tapping in the frenzied eyes of London was a frenzy in the eyes of a forest, in the eyes of the dusty streets, in the eyes of a chattering racket

a racket lost in poverty’s howl, screeching in winds and muted ghosts: drifting away across the seas