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

I watch things flourish:

pale rhizomes and spores,
white vermicelli nematodes,

excreta, burgundy with berries.
There is so much succulence,

rooty treasure-troves big
as dragon bones, half a boot,

bread that is no longer bread,
cobwebbed apples, rusted lids.

At the ragged feet of walls
groundwater collects

in pockets between soil,
black as chewed tobacco.

I want to catch them all,
these gripes and shifts:

stone without the power
to rise and stone that heaves

haphazardly, the slow mill
of landfill, the threadbare

weave of my once-best suit.