Add new eggs to the platitudes of May
—enough ovaltine, say, to incubate
the hatch (if not the harrows of the day).
Let every papa penguin learn to wait
for wintry lessons, mid-July, when hope
is all but lost beneath a blackened sky;
for words of wisdom in a mundane trope,
duly to pigeonhole notes not to die.
October comes—antarctic spring, the march
of baleful academics in full swing—
the fledglings grow against the sense of farce;
they mind their manners, scrounge around and sing.
Nietzsche determines how birdbrains learn,
wallowing in this eternal return.
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