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

I shall have the last word,

snatch it as it loops to its

full self, newt-like, belly

oiled with vowels,

only to flip it back;

a thin ghost of itself,

now tadpole, pond skater,

to flit from lobe to drum,

drown, as new sounds

are nudged from your silence.

If I’m quick, I’ll catch

a full cluster — think

frogspawn — a string

of words, writhing,

still warm, to lob back,

burst at where you stand.