In the Spaciousness of 3 AM
Some people’s poetry only comes when
they’re sleeping. Poems trapped here
are an underground network, cloudy onyx,
coal unburned yet, roots that rise up in
office buildings and in rain.
At 3 AM things become more themselves
by leaving themselves:
The chair and the river fall happily
into each other, because the chair
has always wanted to be a river,
while the river, for its part,
would like nothing more than to just
sit a spell.
Standing in their windows at 3 AM,
poets cast shadows like celestial luminaries.
There’s no need for translation, because
the night sun loves flickering.
Even the silence in the 3 AM grasses
is pregnant like an egg or the moon.