The Literate Arts


The paper i'd delivered
every morning to my door
the girl i'd met at coffee
neither seeming sure

She turned the pages at a nod
whilst i spoke firmly, all with love

She heard just words
i managed, still
to pin them all to will

I promised that i'd teach her
but i never will
for then she'd know these sonnets
are just so many sins

She'd know the stories i have told
were lies the printed page unfolds
she'd know that learning will not pardon

We take a pen to white,
to write and stab the letter's shape
onto a page
just a page

A single sheet, crushed rags
where we tell tales

My sweet,
there are many things
that you would see
if only it was up to me
but most things
that the world records
are idle, petty 
just like me