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

When this bruised medallion, the moon,
rose tonight
I thought how solitude
allows what human kind cannot,
openness to this hill whose eucalypts
are my hands,
the sky
which has seen me drown.

I float up
through these leaves, my skin
breathing this blue again;
the moon
hangs round my neck,
under me men move to harvest
or lie against a golden stook
eating black bread
drinking red wine.

The moon is the pupil of my eye
I go as far as the blue hill goes
I flow like a river in the dark.