The squirrels are frantic in the branches;
birds circle; the cat waits near the roots,
wanting to strip the bark and grease the trunk.
Here's the news under the ground:
the rain's driving weeds through concrete;
farmers are tying razors to worms to fish
sprouts out of seeds. You're eager too.
Don't your fists twitch like the cat's claws
in sleep, same nerve jerking under stretched
skin? The trees are crammed with last year's
nuts, forgotten grubs, all that crop
clawed out of the ground, frozen and thawed
like a hooked fish's face, just before,
just after. Birds, squirrels, and cat
scramble for old meat; the recent dead
push loosening lids with exploding bellies;
the paint flakes from your wife's
face: a few jerks on the burning sheets.