Jacob Smullyan: XXVII (from Dribble)

Death is in squirrels or encased in what
even under blankets radiates a sickly green
reflection, the cold thick eyeglasses of
an ichthyologist along the roadway, shedding
hopeless pelts over the puddles of wastrels,
the jar where like a mythic hand-me-down
seedy round berries are jammed, no longer
self-contained, but an ether
for the damned and the needy,
a sweetened bile which the electrified
muscle accepts with sweating submission,
the gut’s corrosive weeping.