Timothy Nolan


Harvest

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,

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