After James Wright
at twilight, the grasses in the field are green enough
White-tailed jackrabbits dodging to the tree line.
Their skittish ears remind us we are not alone.
Hiding in the shadows of fallen-branch shelters,
they are the most patient.
Perhaps now they fold their narrow ears down
because they know we are here.
When I die, hide me
in a bed of upturned oak leaves and the softest dirt
you can find.
Taylor Collier lives in Syracuse, NY. Work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in The American Poetry Journal, Blue Mesa Review, DIAGRAM, the minnesota review, Southern Indiana Review, Washington Square, and Yemassee.