Cold Zodiac and Butchered Pig Poem by Sylvia Legris

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!