while taking Polaroids
I take one of my
hand pointing
at the prolonged
applause of the conditional self

somehow his feet
are old
floorboards
rotting from neglect

somehow his arms
are hollow
walls housing
yellow jacket nests

somehow his guts
are all the
Polaroids I take
including the one
of my hand pointing
at his prolonged applause

somehow his head
is the broken
windowpane where
the old white woman
with old white hair
and an old white dress

stands warning me
of the door
in the road
rather
the conflicting emotions

swerving between love
and hate
between unstressed syllables

swallowing a reservoir
of universal secrets
that used to be an ocean