Robert Cornelius remains skeptical.
He does not trust that it will work,
or that a specific future develops
when this image will be visible.
He does not pause to comb his hair
or consider us, but guards himself
against the possible exposure,
against the theft, of unmarshalled spirit.
Slow counting silent hesitation,
he glances sidelong from 1839,
doubtful of our existence,
his focus on what he next intends.