Some honorary day
if I play my remaining cards right
I might be a postage stamp
but I won’t be there to lick me
and licking was what I liked,
in tasty anticipation of
the long dark slither from the mailbox,
from box to pouch to hand
to bag to box to slot to hand:
that box is best
whose lid slams open as well as shut,
admitting a parcel of daylight,
the green top of a tree,
and a flickering of fingers, letting go.
Not Cancelled Yet
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