Emily Dickinson started something, time and tide. A match enclosed a flame, perfect fret, a candle was next, a condition, A concrete fact as distributed… Emily woke from the direct statement. A lighter feeling, closer to the moon, but then autumn was at hand. tossing pilgrims into the satisfying wind. This meant another day or two, startled by butterfly, ignored by rocks. Patient, like a quick thing on the edge of something slow, she. Doctored by delight, she stewed then flung, winked then bartered. Whisky was not a real man.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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