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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.

Published in Poems Wyn Cooper

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