Justice

Morning breaks
and you are still there
reflecting all those
little darts within
the evidence left behind;
shattered glass along the
street, nothing else remains.

If you had a sound, it would
be of bells, just as clear
and free to reflect, the
far away ringing of laughter
as the nameles, faceless
thief is cuffed and brought
to justice.

I turn the corner, several
corners and meet with a
blood red sky, and at that
moment there is visual
space enough for both the
white-hot and silver-cool
extremes on the pattern, always
there I'm sure, but even more
valid when you aren't hiding.