C.O.D.

I pluck my eyes to mail to you,
along with the stipulated
boxtops and banjo strings,
the paperclips and spiders dessicated
in salt from a brackish sea.

six to eight weeks
seems such a span
to wait for your kiss
which the ad swore

would be orange
with habaneros.

These days, I can’t
smell envelope glue
without my empty sockets
filling with heat and tears:

twin hot tubs
sparking, steaming
in a world otherwise
chill and dry.

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