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

This is my formula for the fall of things:

we come to a river we always knew we’d have to cross.

It ferries the twilight down through fieldworks

of corn and half-blown sunflowers.

The only sounds, one lost cicada calling to itself

and the piping of a bird that will never have a name.

Now tell me there is a pause

where we know there should be an end;

then tell me you too imagined it this way

with our shadows never quite touching the river

and the river never quite reaching the sea.