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Comments about Robert Gallagher
Tall, thin, sparse
Jack Pines straining, attaining
Crackling dry and spaced like dominoes
Arranged by a petulant child
Red needles acrid and desiccated tumble
On imperceptible expirations of August
The wood of the Pine
Is it the true medium?
North and South a million miles of matchstick sentinels
East and West an eternity of needles, sap and peeling, scaly bark
The hills are less compelling than the trees
The timber is the thing
An aggregate that overwhelms the matter that sustains ...