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

We name our years in numbers and behold, I said,

this new one hangs ahead, plump and divisible.

I poked my cold head round the corner of December,

whose bare evenings sang to me of the future,

until I could see all 365 days laid out from east

to west. A few things stick with me:

a sea view, night-time, lights across the by and by,

wet, black shapes, perhaps the heads of seals;

the Northern Line, glowing with afterworkers –

and someone humming, unless the future is a lie;

a laptop screen: keystrokes and the words expire,

metadata, prism, nourished, homeland, boundless

informant. My beloveds, I will see all of this

and I will leave it, in one order or another, to you.