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	for Xiaohong

On an edge of Zhongguo, we
talk about maps people
carry in their heads, and you
say we are living after Babel.
This city rising to the sky
on land that was sea yesterday
understands this old story
in a foreign tongue despite
the efforts of a god who knows
it. Twice removed from
the center, an edge of an edge,
after that god grew weary
of our tower building and
confused our language to stop
us climbing, weavers of words
still know how to fly. We
do not need a tower to inhabit
sky. Put down bricks and mortar.
Leave that old god to simmer
in his jealousy. We are
weaving worlds of words skyward.