3 a.m. Blue

wanna run through
the one, two, three, o’four clock night
a naked note and celebrate
the vanished sanity
of language, the way trees
become locomotives through the quiet world
the root and river world of earth
the way buildings are transplanted and grown
as high as the relative imagination
of snapshot light on a misplaced corner
where more than one is gathered
in bus stop tones
and the liver of love drowns
in the bars of expectant wood
dreaming of becoming a bookcase
a sideboard, a headboard, a cross
slashed into the earth of love

or a tear waiting to fall
because language is expectation’s disappointment