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

I am over you at last, in Mexico City,  

in a white space high above the street,  

my hands steady, the walls unmoving.  

It’s warm here, and safe, and even in winter  

the rain is benign. Some mornings I let  

the sounds of the plaza—a fruit seller,  

a boy acrobat, a woman selling  

impossible fictions—pile up in a corner  

of the room. I’m not saying I’m happy  

but I am healthy and my money’s my own.  

Sometimes when I’m walking in the market 

past the chickens and the pig smoke,  

I think of you—your big talk and wolf’s heart,  

your Bonaparte hair and eyes of Poe.  

I don’t miss you. I don’t miss you when  

I open a window and light fills the room  

like water pouring into a paper cup,  

or when I hear a woman’s white dress shine  

like new coins and I know I could follow  

my feet to the river and let my life go 

away from me. At times like this, 

if I catch myself talking to you, 

I’m always surprised at the words I hear 

of regret and dumb boyish devotion.