This one's so vivid, it reminds me of a jar: I open it up, get a blast of sight/sound/smell; then I close it, but the after-tang won't let me forget.
One could quibble about one or two of the enjambments, but like I said before, it's the overall effect that counts. There's more poetry here than in many "perfect" sonnets I've read. Besides, this sonnet describes a memory of a rough time in the narrator's childhood. Should it be silky-smooth?
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