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 this surface of porchlight

Dawn's footsoldiers return to march twilight across our faces

Skylites ignite and explode

Scattering shards of april around the room

But no one even lives here

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

Paving the same roads

Unwilling to walk them

And even when we extend ourselves it's 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

We forget that somewhere a man is beside himself with grief

Somewhere people are calling 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

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