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Image by Anaïs MURITH


the madrigal, volume v


by tomás clancy

The surface was blemished, hideous.
Fine hide tethered. Pooling in days light, cast long in the hall.
It trembles in the wind, and to run a finger along it
is to hear the hum of mortality emanate from its fibrous web.
But dappled plains will role like hills, til’ they vanish
until they vanish beneath a laboured palm

                  in toil made fine, like doleful silk.
When skin, sheer like summer veils. Is daubed and made an even brutish like
elephant tusk, thick white lime like ivory fancies.
Fresh to be adorned in mashed flesh of pigment.
All land rolls of beyond they eye’s brink
It is here, bent to will here, the cartograph is a fools pins head.

Consorted in a moment, demolished splendour.
Pressed like heavens embrace printed in flesh
The brute’s hide makes beauties dance mad in the summer rain
An urgent call will rise from nadir point through strata
Forge is dark, gathered parties sink into the mortar
washed in hide’s nested voids.

Tomás Clancy is an editor of the Madrigal and an avid fisherman. That is all.

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