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

We find you, dear Wing, 

in the half-dark 

on the way back from the piglets, 

your knuckle of raw bone 

and streak of claw-white quills 

torn from the socket. 

A grey goose soars 

up high where hot-air balloons drift 

and the wind is a shape 

to wrap yourself around 

solid but unseen, a somersault 

inside the womb; 

here, folded to a cup of hands, 

plump as a wood pigeon 

in the long, flat January grass 

you are singular and intense 

like a girl breathing quietly by a window, 

her just-cut hair pressed against the glass.