Mountain ranges Mourning red bay at the bridges Stab up at the coming blue horizon Grey slides loosely off rooftops Lands on the Incan desert ground and dies A flock of little men touch down on the surface of the porchlight Bronze fist soldiers return To watch the twilight across the 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 world that's standing 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 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 Somwhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose against 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 "N" 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...