Crime tenting cities—my side, 
your side, my vision, yours.
Sometimes there is a right side. 
Sometimes truth clamors beside 
us, riding our hearts, crying, 
crying in the night to be heard. 

In the sweating darkness, 
the red lights scream brightness 
against the tender stars, the sirens 
and screaming, sweat dripping 
salty into open mouths, 
their righteousness unbolden. 

Is there never a time when violence 
does not excite, when tears 
fail to touch the rim of our glass? 
Everything shatters, everything ends,
is that the truth we long to hear
or the angels of our better nature? 

So dear to clearing fog, a mist 
rises before us as we walk north, 
and to the west there is a stone at sea, 
a waiting monument to patience,
a vision, a warmth of community. 
Our witness crowds the horizon.

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