The Contents of this Sonnet

It’s fourteen lines, ten syllables in each.

It has its turn, obeys those ancient rules

reluctant boys don’t listen to in schools

but there are many things you cannot teach -

the meanings hidden deep beneath the words,

the things which just the two of us can see,

the secret story told of you and me.

The words themselves are for the fucking birds

who only see the beads and not the thread;

who hear the meter, not the beating heart.

They only understand what can be read

and even if they tore these words apart

they would not ever see what goes unsaid:

you’re always at the centre of my art.