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

As we say arboretum       here        I walk below the arbres

down the Rue Jussieu              amongst the mottled ombre.

The books shrink on their stalls         the shop walls crack

to craquelure.                 The Seine might be the Acheron

if     Eliot had got his langue on.                 The cafés brim.

The heat ensures an ambery slick        above the upper lip

part pimento     tar     and garlic                     but miscible

with the Beaujolais                  I’m drinking   by the bottle.

From bed              I hear Emmanuel            the bourdon

bell       (at Notre Dame      the tourists shout him down).

Outside      the traffic drones                a Perotin melisma.

As always     I think of you        I wish that you were here.