John Allen Taylor: A Kind of Permanence
It was the way your dark hair became an early night,
the way I could hardly see the broad, black neck
of the horse arc over the electric fence humming faintly
in the tall grass, how the horse felt the urgency
in my bones before I did. Sensed fear arcing across
neurons. In that moment, I thought of how immortal
jellyfish allow themselves to die. Allow me to die.
The way the mare’s warm muzzle pressed wholly
into my open palm is how your side fit against mine
on the edge of that dark, fragile country.
JOHN ALLEN TAYLOR is a knower of small things. Among those things are candle making, kombucha, and heirloom carrots. He lives and farms in the Inland Northwest and is at this moment making oatmeal for his two spoiled mallards. More at www.johnallentaylor.com.
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