The study of pub shutter syllabi,
after a rain-lacerated entreaty,
when the pages of the book have curled like foeti,
and Latin takes root in graffiti.
All of the pigs have parvovirus,
and the wind rips into the stalls
where the manger’s full of meningitis
and the manager of alcohol.
Where the Lady of Shallot’s shallots went,
hypothermia’s getting the band back together.
The immature squash in the allotment
sulks under a bannister of bad weather.
The seats by the grate cheep like garden gates
while sleet muddles acetate in the ashtrays.
Old boys debate the mortality rate
as they bleed marrow of its fog in the foyer.
Now the moon is so full it howls on the stones,
and the branches are arguing over the frost.
I think we are in rat’s alley. Let me check my phone.
Let us pray for the arguments we have lost.
Do you think we have time, winter solstice,
to order a round, as the custom demands,
and drink to the health of toxicosis,
after opening our gifts of ungloved hands?