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.