I like to put my poems in a box --
That's how they know just what to do. They bash
Their lines against the sides, and each one knocks
And knocks until a rhyme is made. They crash
Against the walls and tangle up. They crave
Their other lines and interact in sounds
That, when they all reverberate, they wave
In rhythms to make meaning without bounds.
Yet, should we not set free our poetry?
Let lines flow off the page if that's their wish?
And surely all we poets must agree
That rules are like a pomegranate fish.
Is beauty in the randomness of fools --
Or rather in the freedom made by rules?
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