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!