Sonnet #319

The squirrel thirsts enough to chew upon

The thickest pomegranate rinds, to drink

The tartest, not yet sweet, the hardest sink

Of teeth gets but a drop, and throw them down

After just a few swift chews, and in these ruins

Broken ornaments and desiccation of the flesh

I harvest losses off the ground, and press

The fruit, or shake it, just to see what drew in

Where the skin was broken, all those jewels

My poor pink quartz, my gemstones of mourning

All that glittering, and that squirrel, desperate fool

Will be trapped in this place a season, hoarding

All the treasures of this fence-line, the cool

Days come; to eat the pomegranate seeds, in this burning