_the grass harp_
so little, once it has changed, changes back: the world knew us: we would never be warm again: i let go, saw winter coming toward a cold tree, cried, cried, came apart like a rain-rotted rag. (p 60)
'i was that sorry for him and loved him more than a tongue can tell.' (p 74)
'but a man who doesn't dream is like a man who doesn't sweat: he stores up a lot of poison.' (p83)