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Category archive for: Wyn Cooper

European

Toro, Tory, name your country,

I’m not here to call you names.

The last train leaves in an hour

unless it bursts into flame.

There’s no room for your kind

says the man next to me.

His eyes stare at the floor—

our shoes are countries.

His boots are Italian,

mine loafers from Spain.

His glare’s Sicilian,

my tongue is in pain.

NATO holds us together,

two birds without feathers.

from Chaos is the New CalmFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Weave

From the mosque the muezzin calls

through speakers on minarets,

sounds that weave down every alley,

that find me where I lie

and lure me toward another prayer.

I stay in a slum, don’t bat an eye

when people cry at the door.

I can’t close it on those

who wonder why I’m here at all.

I follow directions when they’re given

in language I don’t understand.

I watch the Turks as they converse,

watch their hands weave the air,

how they tell their stories here.

from Chaos is the New CalmFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

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