I lived behind the latch of that house,
yet can remember nothing.
Sixty years of forgetfulness I carry round;
my guess work fills an empty sack.
There are one or two photographs,
neither being white or black.
Beyond a half demolished wall,
a man I do not know calls ,
telling me to move on.
As machines start to rumble
the cul de sac is sealed
A ball and chain reveal vacuums
staring at the sky