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

The infinite regression of things
was never made clearer to you
than that starless night
when you took the form
of a chattering chicken’s head
projected onto the nylon
wall of a tent, and looking back

at the pinched forefinger and thumb
that made your beak, back
through the clenched middle and ring
fingers to the flickering
kerosene lantern, you knew that even he,
your pudgy, rotten-toothed, dim-
witted creator, could not behold what

you, a knuckle-brained silhouette
could see on the other side
of the screen: the racoon at the picnic
basket, the speckled fawn disappearing
under brush for fear, and beyond
the timberline, the fat orange moon
that was busy, obliterating the stars.