Intergalactic UPS

Under the return address,
there is a flap of skin.
A milky membrane slides
out of view as you press
your eye against the opening,
and something like a tongue traces
a line across your lid,
warm and wet as a kiss
lingering in your ear.
Worm-like vapor in the foreground
adds a sense of perspective.
You wonder out loud how
the inexplicable fragrance
of gelatinous flowers
makes you want to thermoflock
your bedroom ceiling
with stars dying one by one.

—Jeffrey Johannes