too much butter; not enough ice

understand
that I am distanced from you people
only because
there is no way to distinguish most of you

and when I try at times
I go through; I meet and look at you all;
I am struck dull,
it’s not that I expect too much it is that

I expect something at all
and that is what seems impossible—this
overshadowed only
by the fact that you’ve got the same look

in every shot:
turned-head, squinty-front-eye, look sexy
for the camera darling;
only a Polaroid palisade keeps them

from looking into you;
realizing that façade’s your only hand to
ad rem originality.