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

You placed yellow roses by the window, then,

leaning forwards, began combing your red hair;

perhaps you were crying.

To make the distance less I turned away

and faced you across the earth’s circumference.

The windowpane turns black:

across its flawed glass suddenly your image

runs on mine.

I stare at the vase until yellow

is no longer a colour, nor roses flowers.