"The art of losing, isn't hard to master.":

1. His eyes are quickened so with grief
      He can watch a grass or leaf
      Every instant grow; he can
      Clearly through a flint wall see
      Or watch the startled spirit flee
      From the throat of a dead man.
   	 Across two counties he can hear
   And catch your words before you speak.
   The woodhouse or the maggot's weak
   Clamor rings in his sad ear,
   And noise so slight it would surpass
   Credence—drinking sound of grass,
   Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth
   Chumbling holes in cloth;

   
   

2. O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
   And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
   And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?
   
   Sea-winds blown from east and west,
   Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till 	
   	there on the prairies meeting,
   These and with these and the breath of my chant,
   I'll perfume the grave of him I love.

   
   

3.    "My father would whip me if he knew I was here," she said.
      "You shouldn't have come."
      "I had to see you, Jay."
      He stared at the wall. He wanted her to go.
      "I feel like I lost a part of myself," she said, "like my arm's been cut
   off, but the missing thing is inside."
      "Yeah, well you're lucky," Jay said.
      She looked at his legs, the right one still huge and heavy in the dirty
   cast, the left one withered and white.
      "I'm sorry," she said, "sometimes I'm so stupid."
      "I hate it when you say that."
      "When I say what?"
      "Sorry. Why the fuck are you so sorry?"
      "I didn't mean—"
      "Forget it."
      "At his bedroom door, she turned." It was a boy," she said, "if you want to know."