good men

pulling the seeds off 
feather reed grass, strand by strand.

i opened my hands & watched them
disperse like falling jet planes,

me, the parachute 

you, the sky pulling me open

i was walking down by the empty ball fields
& conjuring a bat to smack 
at the dirt, 

letting the wind 
escort a few men's ghosts around
the diamonds-- 

glistening in the earth

i find the stains growing back
on the knees of my pants,
green & smudged maroon clay

do you scabs sometimes form
continents-- ports & harbors 
on the elbows 

i find a need to write a definition
for what a good man is
if i'm going to be one--

is it something to do with 
sturdiness?

i break the bleachers into
popsicle sticks 

i take a bite out of the 
neon green soft ball my father
is harvesting from the bucket 
in the garage

i un-screw light bulbs all over
the house to put them back in
again, 

i want to be useful,

i'm thinking of the basement 
with his wall of wrenches & hammers

i want to fix us,

lay us out on the model train table 
& bury us in ball field dirt

i'm starting over from scratch

no box mix blood & screw drivers

no knuckles, this time

no cassocks or lawn mowers

i'm taking pollen & smudging
it under my eyes like war paint

this is where we take apart 
ourselves & tell no one 

no tell everyone

pocket knife the tears
from under finger nails

this is where i draw a god
in the mud with sticks 

he asks me what business
i have here making
a body 

i syringe 

i peel

i fold

i want a smaller 
& gentler world

just big enough

the size of hotel shampoo
bottles

where the ground trusts me
no to leave scars

where my own mouth 
lets me eat stars, burning

holes in my gums,

drinking rain & collecting
on the sidewalks

i kick at the sand again,
this time near the pitcher's mound 

i see my father

he crouches in the outfield 

& takes a pairing
knife to his callous fingers
like apricots

tell me, is there
something to make-good 
with us?