He’s down in the gravel pit all summer,
taking the family apart, layer
by layer, as if it wasn’t any

of us who dumped things, but rather some
extravagant beings he never knew.
He’s hoping to find a buried treasure—

meanwhile he’s assembling wasted pieces
of the past. Item: stag-handled pocket
knife, “in good condition”, he says. “The tip

is broken,” says my father. “But the handle’s
good and the blade isn’t even rusted.”
“Still, it hasn’t any tip,” my father

says, “and I’d throw it away again 
if you let me.” This goes on all summer.