the madrigal, volume i
helen jenks and tomás clancy
by tomás clancy
Chipped, Flecked and withering
you gleam still, if in spite.
A forced union, and a most imperfect one at that
how flesh and bone still ebbs and flows
convulsing, were drawn so to the sour Bracco.
There’s no penance more prayer in our efforts
No chance remains to be whole anew,
Revel as you can.
Strung out and splayed,
it’s a bitter thing to see you still at last
a muddied stoop is no place for the finery of form.
Nor fitting passage to become scenery
Crimson drips down to the banks,
only to meet the pooling glow of lamps
upon high, over which the spires rise.
We can only home the cool will lift
from skin when we leave the shade.