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

1

All winter I have harried the pond
with restless visiting.

As rain hammers the glass roof
and a fan worries the edge of sight,

I remember something missed.
How June after June pink buds

on the Chinese lake became small stupas
housing more than a flower can.

Did gods sit there inside each pleated bulb?
Some say they did.

I saw only the aftermath
a waste of toppled stalks.

2

The lotuses have flown,
acquired visas and migrated to

the middle of this pool. There
they huddle, like with like.

Precarious, unrooted; community
is all. Their sons and daughters

rise on curving stems,
turning the plates of their small-featured

faces to the light, as if to music.