http://www.clarebyrneweeklyrites.blogspot.com/ I agree, I think in wave But 'tis a stormy sea Thought come next sets out before The first come back to me They cresting greet and crashing clap Obfuscate another I feet dragged lurch on the shore Wond'ring about order Emily
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Dickinson ruins each poem near the end - she uses a word that doesn't fit, that jangles where you expect rhyme or smoothness. She puts a hole in the container, like how the Native American Mimbres pottery bowls were buried: a shard punched right out of the center. If she buried them perfect the soul would be trapped; there must be an escape mechanism. The poem above is mine, in Emily cadence.
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