February 2016

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...

It was the week of asking. Asking
to watch her eat. Asking if she understood
the doctors’ questions. Asking her
to explain the difference between
wanting to die right now, and dying later.
The tumor making certain answers
unquestionable. I watched her point
to the incense dish...

abide with me
don’t ever abide
gimme anytime a pile
of leaf-hay across
the field underneath
the bright new blue
tractor pulling the tedder
which is the waffler or fluffer