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!