Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Not to look for the stories behind our stories,

or they’ll not be stories. Even less so,

poems.

Fact, with its hooping wires,

plots on standing still.

Yet it’s memory fingers

the spring swings gates to such freedom.

That is how things are. Don’t predict us,

reader, and we’ll do our job. Even a bee,

thank Christ, makes its jazzy errors.

Every breeze breaks new, such

games as we play them.

Yet the tangle of lines we so love, the sort gifting

us space. Space that is never elsewhere,

only ours to entice. Out-tangling fact let’s call

What flings from here.