Mountain ranges

Morning red bathed ridges

Stab up at the trembling blue horizon

Grey slides lazily off rooftops

Lands on the incandescent ground and dies

A flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of the porch light

Dawns foot soldiers return

To match twilight across our faces

Skylights ignite and explode

Scattering shards of April around the room

No one even lives here

We're too busy crashing our cars every morning at the same house

Paving the same roads

Unwilling to walk them

And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included

In a moment that stands still

So often we don't struggle to improve conditions

We struggle for the right to say "we improved conditions"

And so often we form communities

Only to use them as exclusionary devices

We forget that somewhere a man is beside himself with grief

We forget that somewhere people are calling out for teachers

And no one is answering

Somewhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose

Against the door

And somewhere these people are keeping records

And writing a book

For now we can call it "The Book About the Basic Flaw"

Or "The Book About the Letter "A"

Or Any Title That a Book About a Man That No One Cares About Might Have

And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of nothing

The sounds of a vanishing alphabet

Standing here waiting