Poem: Anonymous

a photo of an empty display box, rested on a pedestal

On exhibit, the leg bones melt
from impressions projected in the stare
of strangers.
In unbearable oblivion,
the dry humdrum and line
from each person carries with it the absence of identity,
to the next step of identifying.
There is a crumble of spirit.
Weak in the fluorescent light,
bone on white paper.
Paper in white gown.
Paper alien, go somewhere else,
not here.
We have a finger problem.
It points with accusation.

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