where the circle ends

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 porchlight, dawn's footsoldiers return to march the twilight across our faces, skylights ignite and explode, scattering shards of april around the room, no one even lives here, we're too busy crashin our cars every morning in 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, and 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, and we forget that somewhere man is beside himself with grief, and somewhere people are calling for teachers, and no one's 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