Francisco Bizarro

for there was barely a thistle

along the low parapet now

and the thin green parasols which lived there

would not x-ray the milk

their pale albuminous latex knights

and the acorn dispatch

or saint vitus' mythic meeting

with the squirrels

their hands so racoon like

floating over these ceramic faces

where purslain lie leeling

percival the cat

in town for a month now it its mouth

the country cousin

or hay of math

spread out all around the perimeter

just outside the parapet

which footed the walls of the barn

the bard of yarn

which hung in effigy before the toads

fried eggs in oil paintings

to break the yolk with a spiny spindled skull

of pliant green dexterity

as if all symbolism

were the flexible plastic suppurating tessellation 

of Aristophane's frogs

the high image of their fecund satire

El Cuarto del Rescate

sniff the beast and toss it down

long and winding glass acorns

and saint vitus'

illicit squirrel child

stored away

in spring 

is nuts