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Comments about Timothy Nolan
Why the shriek, headstones? Why in
this throbbing sun, this dip and sway
of wind-bellied August hay, is it you alone
who keen? Because it is not you,
to be, at last, harvested today?
Your earthly keep, cropped close,
black-railed, tempts no gatherer.
No thresher fells your angry howling,
your hollow whistle in the ruffled bright.
No baler twines unyielding marble
as food against a growing quiet.
The clock sings.
Your chiseled sides pick and flare the light.
You are foolish arabesques, braggarts flush
with glittering coins of sun. Yet...