| I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible
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| To the hungry mouths. |
| I stay unapproachable.
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| I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.
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| Scarred by attention. |
| And quietly addicted to innocence.
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| At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous
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| I’m stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of them.
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| I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray.
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| Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them.
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| So, who am I? |
| Come on: ask me, I dare you.
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| So, who am I? |
| Come on: question me, if you care to.
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| And why not try to interrogate this apparition?
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| I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.
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| In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,
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| I am detached in serious observation.
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| As a passenger, I become un-tethered when
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| I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.
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| Herald Tribune or USA Today. |
| Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.
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| Asleep for the movie. |
| Awake for the dawn
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| Dancing on England and hedgerows —
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| Embossed on a carpet of green. |
| I descend and —
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| Forgive me — I mean to get lost in crowds. |