the madrigal, volume i
helen jenks and tomás clancy
by tomás clancy
Christ hides in the gilded pride
on the petals of a shallow bough.
Tacit peace falls on the sullen,
those who peering and manful remain
on the cusp of form at canvas’ edge.
I could never take to bended knee
in the shadow of altered form
no poise in kind only painted pageant.
You fall short of a whole god
Piteous in mincing measured marvel
Feigned grace flecks away
And you are more mortal than I the bleeding
Oh, fleeting moment.
Free the frail
That they may one day
be, in a natural sort of conclusion.