I looked up and saw
the squirrel
hanging heavy
as a sock
full of sand
back legs
holding
tenuous purchase
on a single limb
quivering slightly
swaying
on its precarious
bark-and-toenail hinge
holding a mulberry
in both hands
the way you hold
the face of a lover
and then gnaw it
to pieces
seeds and all
until everything
is stained blue
and you move
on to another.

__

I was actually lying in a hammock, watching squirrels in the mulberry tree. James Wright's poem, "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm near Pine Island, MN," was hovering somewhere nearby.