unsure what to do with that grapefruit

and before the shine let the the ice grow cold,
a juice ran down my hand. a sweet sour sticky
grapefruit juice ran down the valley in my dry
knuckles. And there it stayed, shimmering in its
proud and unannounced little loop, shimmering because
the snow from the week before was on its way down
the street, finally releasing from its cold little pile
of a hug, glittering a beady eyed shine so full
of itself, and so full of anything else
that isn’t the cold, the cold that stays
as night comes and tells us to wait
until the morning to cut up
the next grapefruit.