Homage to Emily Dickinson
Born—Bridalled—Shrouded—/In a Day—
Emily Dickinson, “Title divine—is mine!”
Survivors—all—they tell of Burns
Inside the cell of Brain.
The polish shines the—groping—breaks
That lit—before—the grain.
There’s one—can blow apart and show
What fits her for the Hit,
The Aura of approaching—Sense
Into household white—
To find the Fork—the Juncture found
Down to the Smallest Severance,