a man 

sometimes a man
is standing in the lawn
& you don't know who he is.
the phone rings &
it's an angel on the line.
he speaks in dropped dishes.
sometimes you forget 
you are a man then you remember
you don't have to be a man 
even if that's how 
the world sees you. then you remember
you once tried to be a mailbox.
opened your mouth
& let the junk mail come.
dead birds. dead beetles.
the smell of finger grit 
& folded napkins. sometimes 
the man is kind & has pockets full
of butterscotch. sometimes
you equate kindness with sugar.
sometimes sugar is a way in.
there are tunnels that throb
beneath any given furnace.
sometimes they are
full of men. sometimes
the man in the lawn looks
like your father. sometimes he has
a jesus pamphlet & sometimes 
he eats his lunch just standing there.
the curtains turn to wings.
the living room fills with hair.
nothing to see. nothing to regret.
sometimes you think
"if i just open the door
& tell him to go away."
of course you know
he's not going to go away. 
that's just not the way men
or lawns work. they are 
thresholds & pocketknives.
one akin to the other.