workshop of the three little pigs

When the wolf came upon the first poem he could see the lines were just straw. A half-inhale was all it took to blow away the poem. The second poem he came to was made of sticks, and with a great gust of breath he blew apart the poem. But the last poem he encountered was a stanza made of brick, and no matter how hard he tried to blow and blow, the brick box held.

polyhedron box

The ‘box’ we call poetry is a polyhedron still building out new spaces.

box of drafts

Do you have a book of poems?, he asked. No, I said, but I have good sized boxful of them.

broken box

A poem is a genre wrecking literary instrument.

bookcase or box

This is not a book for my bookcase, but for the box to be donated to a local booksale.

big box

A prose poem: big box o’ words.

box or old barn

Even a poem that closes, as Yeats said, like a box clicking shut, is open in many ways…reading it is like being inside an old barn with many missing boards and shingles, the light streaming in from many directions.