I am an open mouth,
like a cannon,
a relic,
in the front yard of an enthusiast;
the weeds lick me,
the dandelions burst in the shadows,
and that shaggy black horse
shakes the flies off of her
in spasms
as she
nibbles them.

I am waiting
to become a planter;
for the old man
to throw dirt
where shells nestled.

I am done with destruction.

I like the comforting resound
of horse teeth against iron
and roots
crawling.