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Rosanna Warren (1953– ) World Trade Center We are so small beneath the stars we figure as barely visible écriture: minute provisoes on the lease the squinting lawyer can’t make out. Why don’t you look at me, you say. I look but you sit with your back to the window. There reels the royal document of sky. Below, in river blackness, a single tugboat drags one point of light across the dark. It wants to punctuate the entire, shiftless story of the night. The water, invisible, slides. We are so small beneath the stars, we dance, the couples dance, flame fingers air at each small table from a small glass cup. We have not been consulted on these laws. We dance, we look, I can’t read our own sentence, our candle guttered in its pool of wax. Outside the stars are wheeling. Bridges string sequins from nowhere to nowhere. Jeweled words lie tossed on the blackened scroll: tossed to the curled, soiled fringes of the world. ...

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