Camera Obscura

There is no more a moment in the room
when all are gone from it. There are the hairs
that lie upon the carpet till the broom,
and the poem written by a man who stared
at them and left into the populace. 
Nothing you would dare to call interesting
remains. Human remains are what there is.
The feather does not know it was once a wing.

It is an office for the unemployed
having become a little more itself.
Now there is no one looking at the shelf
for something to avow or to avoid.
There is no more a moment. And the room
has nothing anymore with which to rhyme.

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