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

The painter,

light dimming,

quits the studio

Leaving noon

to flare at seven,

blossom, vase, sky

Washing the sunlight

from his hands

he enters evening

A caress of colour

inside time

has caught time

Stopped the scissors

closing on the dial.

Separated from midday

by no lie of brightness

the rhetorical flowers

are hammered to the canvas

state themselves.

A match spurts up

and the door closes

Shadows encroach

ink the painting over

while the man

following the tip

of his cigarette

goes down the now dark street