Two dragonflies hover
in an envelope of air,
a flying fuck,
outside the new post office
which is for lovers
only. The old bald eagle
has been retired, the whole
idea of flight entirely revised:
Snail me a rectangle, love.
Let your tongue
(delicacy I’m dreaming of)
secrete a slimy path along
its flap, its one
vestigial wing. Pop it in a blue
drop on any corner
bearing the new triptych logo:
The conch, the whelk, the periwinkle
inching along in reverse
psychological order,
symbolizing the involute
progress of arousal.
Slow is in. Slow
is good in love and slow
dancing, long and wet
kisses. Email is for exes
and execs. We know
better, don’t we, love?
We’ll take that letter.
We’ll take forever anyday.

Paul Hostovsky‘s latest book of poems is Mostly (FutureCycle Press, 2021). He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter.

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