Squirrel In the Yard Ii

the squirrel in the yard has seen me give up my worms to the dirt only to feed the birds, and in turn hear the chirps of more nightingales the sickening chirps of january, the monotonous wails of january on the fence, the straggled hair still holds onto barbed wire and sets off the alarm each morning for my forest tent caterpillar awaiting an older ant from its colony, to its home crawling across broken shards of my cognitive window before it wasn’t cocooned, but instead glass-blown into incognito but I can only trudge tiredly to my window and watch through, not lace, but black-out curtains the crowns of thorns on all the gods that walk up to my porch, step on tomatoes, and eat my leaves without reading their veins, claiming they know the trees— but never knew they’re poison not unlike the jars of jam in a wicker basket fermented in that Wiccan casket from 2004 that still float up and down my backyard stream, under my bridge that hasn’t been repaired only an engraved scratch only an entombed epitaph the squirrel in the yard has hidden his acorns in me through the one-way window only he can see my remaining worms will curl around them holding onto something foreign and the squirrel, with his empty eyes, will never eat again