Eli Albert


I am unsleeped, beautious birdsong, belong to be long.

it’s a slow dawn, a silly dawn. crickets whisper a chorus made only for waking dreamers. no one should be awake. no one is awake, silly dreamers notwithstanding.

branches of the spindly municipal oak tap the window. light barely filters thru. pop tart wafts from the kitchen. clothes, stained from sweat, torn and gaudy, are arrayed in runic forms against the dark grain of the old wood floor of the third story college walk-up. everything is as it was, and nothing is the same.

it’s a slow drift, from epiphany to despair, or maybe from ecstasy to ruin. or maybe it’s no drift at all, and no one is surprised. the near-silent morse stylings of a dusty telegraph sound out a TAP TAP TAP counterpoint to the oak tree and the just risen sparrows, a communication device long since extinct, a lightning storm in slow motion, a few choice neurons rubbing against each other in fits of passion before quieting once more, too quiet, too few.

the trick is, the trick would be, could always have something to do with those last shreds of brilliance, of light, of power, of bottling and feeding, growing them, nurturing and promising a new kind of dawn where the night never ends, even tho it never was, never did, never could bottle and grow and save, and the night always ends, and the sun rises with the birds and the child goes to sleep.