| 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 FlawOr " | |
| 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 nothingThe sounds of a vanishing alphabetStanding here waiting |
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