Email Poem

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Poem	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 . . .
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