It's teatime in the museum rotunda:

always in the corner of the scene,

an artist with sketch book

erasing his presence.

He seems to write a letter,

looks up as if in search of the perfect word,

scribbles his verbless sentence:

two women with teacups,

their pinkies precisely poised.

But his eye's without a tongue -

it doesn't see the name of things,

only the space between them.

Each blink turns people, objects

into smudges in a universe of white,

a self-portrait forever emerging.

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