rare as wood

We are not born apologetic
and few ask leave to die.

In the morning sorry to awake,
at night afraid to sleep,
each day is a mistake
until, folded and put away,
it seems safe and inevitable.

Every inordinate love
intuits hope rare as wood;
sturdy, lonely, bent—
a final tree.

      – joel short

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Creative Commons License
Rare as Wood by Joel Short is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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