Cold Zodiac and Butchered Pig
Onward the fairweather spleen.
Onward the season of vent and caprice.
Giovedì Grasso flies the meat,
trees still larded with winter grease —
ice, the Dead Time, the Flensing Time.
Flirt fattened Thursday of December’s gorge.
The twelve pigs of the zodiac stew the zeal,
slow simmering giddy fizzling squeals.
Uncloister the close-air surgical theater.
Ungristle the knife-jester’s grip.
Let the butcher carnival begin!