I agree, I think in wave
But 'tis a stormy sea
Thought come next sets out before
The first comes back to me
They cresting greet and crashing clap
I feet dragged lurch upon the shore
Wond'ring about order
Emily 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.