The strapping documents of One Emily Dickinson come between us. We see salients and pure stuff, from the edge of each word to the middle, the horizon adorning.
Documents everywhere stand on their toes. They drink to the framing technique patent of swizzle sticks. Pants in the ocean, empty of human form.
Remember the moment that the first stick swizzled? From gulfs of approximation, as varied as cream-filled Newt Gingrich, a letter arrives. The letter carries the moral equivalent of a swizzle stick. The God of Twinkies readies to speak. We wait with a pantry of remorse.
Cocktail blossoms fall upon ideology, which pulses with strata while union members bend towards sunlit field. The story is tolled in the season. The owners own, and in owning, they round fast ball.
One Emily Dickinson likes to see it lap the miles. This sensual indication, a time filled from youth on, becomes capable of which minute left in which sequence. The strapping documents then side with fervor, or blessing, or stricture, although in fact the nation needs new dimensions for the words still alive. We have voted and this is it.
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