by Wyn CooperFrom 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.
