Loved this poem from 'The Last Word and the Word After That'. Actually i think i might stick it on the office wall.

"Pat explained 'I've developed this rather odd form for some of my poems, like that one, and the next one. Each ine has seven syllables, except the last. This next one is called Boxes.'"

BOXES

We like things in boxed. Cereal,
Candy, soap, gifts and corpses.
They seem safe when boxed, as are
We. As is God and other
Potential dangers. So we
Sleep in a box, awake in
A box, shower in a box,
Refrigerate food, store knives,
Drive to work, work for hours, where
We stare each day at boxes,
In boxed lives. Boxed-in we live.
Through boxed windows we look out, in.
God, once boxed, broke out, broke free.
But we keep pushing God back,
Our Jack, popping out on cue,
To music, though it's not fair.
Nests have birds. Dens have foxes.
God will have none of our small
Boxes. God is free, and we
Are too.