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"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

James B. Nicola


I know you have not said that

I know you have not said that you love me
yet, any more than I've said I love you
directly, only anonymously,
in verse. You might suspect it isn't true,
unless you knew you knew me. Those who do,
know me most truthfully through poetry,
that harmless artifice that sets us free
of fears from any truths that might ensue:

Love may (1) sprout like weeds that know no blossom,
as short-lived as a gusty wind, or lust;
or (2) like friendship, spread as swords of grass,
each God-grown, but too green to be called awesome;
or (3) spring—here—where all that comes to pass
will grow, like poetry, because we must.