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

A word from a dream, or several, spiked on it

like old receipts. Something akin to a clavicle’s

bold airs; a measurement of antique land;

a keepsake brooch on a quilted silk bodice;

a firkin, filled to the brink with mead or milk;

a bobbin spinning like a back-road drunken bumpkin;

borrowed, half-baked prophecies in a foreign tongue;

a debunked uncle’s thin bloodline; a Balkan

fairy story, all broken bones poked inside out;

a bespoke book blacked in with Indian ink;

a bobolink in a buckeye or a bare-backed oak;

a barren spindle, choked ankle-high with lichen;

a fistful of ball bearings dropped on a bodhran.

Body skin. Kith and kin. Other buckled things.