Tin Horse

A horse
made of tin
lay baking
in the sun
beside the outhouse,
mama’s wine glass
resting on the gravel
where she left it last
rocks
glistened in the heat
my eyes sore
from the lemon-grass trees
pine needles prick
the back of my feet
my nostrils flare with dust
black sheep
and
red dog licking at my feet
all around
baron
carcasses
dry
blend with dirt
like roots to the earth,
crows to pick their bones
Papas skin
burnt
sleep he does not know
Hummingbirds
call to the blue bells bush,
The horizon beacons across
the remote
like western light touching
the window pane,
in quiet isolation
This is where I call home.