Melting down—
the shrinking
slush hugs all
the tighter—edges
of dirty
city curbs—where dead
and still-
dying shrubs, are
hung—no longer
with snow,
but still
with several
slow and
ruddy country-
squirrels—who shrug
and don't bother jumping—savvy
and fat
enough to know
there's nothing
left down there—that's
sweet
to eat
amid
these stretches
of rippling brownblack
and
white detritus.
