by Jen Karetnick
— After The Concert in the Egg by Hieronymus Bosch (a disputed attribution)
Never mind the snake
hanging like a stale piece
of licorice over a pinky of branch;
he’s not so seductive after all.
And though trees root here, and myths
teem like gods, this pessimistic
impasto is hardly a garden.
Never mind the choir of goliards
