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Getting Lost
11/2009
perched on the marble edge
of the only dry surface in Florence
I have installed myself as living art
in the museum of the alley ways

ankles crossed, toes pointed, arms angled,
face frozen, eyes trained on
two old Italian men vehemently debating
where the rubbish should be placed

and unless I open my American mouth
no one will know that

I

am out of place