Eve Grubin (#38) calls white space her favourite device and treats editing as cutting until silence does the saying. She points to a poem of hers that stops mid-sentence and leaves the gap. Set that beside Williams's wheelbarrow (#5): there the break splits a word, here the poem stops and the page finishes the thought.

Exercise: write a short poem of ten lines, then delete the last clause of the final sentence and leave the rest alone. Read it aloud and note what the reader now supplies.

Kimiko Hahn (#32) builds a glosa by opening on someone else's quatrain and letting each borrowed line close a stanza in turn; she cut the traditional ten-line stanzas because the rhyme arrived too late to sound intended. Sarah Ghazal Ali (#33) says the ghazal's couplets each hinge on themselves, so a ghazal that tells one story in order has stopped being one.

Both treat the borrowed or repeated line as a hinge, not a thread.

Exercise: take four lines from a poem you love and write four short stanzas, each ending on one of them in order. Then reorder the stanzas and see which still work. If all of them do, you have written something nearer a ghazal.

O'Connor (#28) sets Kay Ryan's very short lines against Whitman's long ones: the length of the line sizes the subject. Williams's wheelbarrow poem (#5) is the same lesson at its smallest, where the break cuts a word in half.

Exercise: take one plain sentence about a small thing and break it into lines of two words. Then break the same sentence into one long line. Say aloud which one sounds like the thing.