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Written by: Russell Edson | Biography
 The living room is overgrown with grass. It has 
come up around the furniture. It stretches through 
the dining room, past the swinging door into the 
kitchen. It extends for miles and miles into the 
walls . . .

 There's treasure in grass, things dropped or put 
there; a stick of rust that was once a penknife, a 
grave marker. . . All hidden in the grass at the 
scalp of the window . . .

 In a cellar under the grass an old man sits in a 
rocking chair, rocking to and fro. In his arms he 
holds an infant, the infant body of himself. And 
he rocks to and fro under the grass in the 
dark . . .