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 improve conditions”
And so often we form communities
Only the use them as exclusionary devices
We forget that somewhere 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 bookFor 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 a vanishing alphabet,
Standing here waiting.