Nautilus Hour

Inside every cell 
  is the call of another 
     voice from a forgotten
       town— It's what makes you 
         turn your head, believing 
           if only for a split second 
             you've been addressed. It may 
              have only been frog-croak 
              in the river's hollow. It may 
              have only been the blue sonata 
             of owls. But there's something 
           in those vowels opening out-
         ward through near-deserted streets: 
       brush of a fingertip against a child's 
     broad forehead, taste of the first 
  milk of rice from the pot; the last
salty trickle from the spoon.