Hedged In

[Alic Elliot]

They are under the hedge,
the silver whiskered – threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.

A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back 'myopic' is a nice word.
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment.
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
She ferrets deeper
into thickets of uncertainty. Is this some sort of comparison to the chipmunks? Also, "Thickets of uncertainty" is a bit prose-ish.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples. 
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows. I'm officially lost. What's going on here?

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches. Children? Are they orphans? 

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight. 

We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us. 

This looks like it's supposed to be nice, but is really, really confusing. If you could explain more and describe less, that would be great. It seems that your strong suit is imagery. Move out of your comfort zone. Not every poem needs to be a mental masterpiece worthy of the Louvre. Work on transitions from one idea to another, making connections.

Best, Alic