All of the good men

All the good men are like long bending blades of green grass 

That a dog ate 

And then vomited up

And now I am staring at that vomit 

And all the blades are all twisted up 

And half corroded by acid 

And wondering if I could somehow

—is it even possible?

Pick them out 

And stick them back in the ground and make them grow again

so I would have a soft place to rest.