Broken Glass

The light has not yet faded, but
it has turned red and begun to die.
On one side
an empty street,
on the other
a silent grove of
sweet-scented orange trees.
Shards of broken beer bottles
wink at me from the pale dirt
like gems in the late light.
Sharp-sided topaz, emeralds,
diamonds that cut the greedy thief
who steals too many.
Drunk on the scent of the trees,
running, pockets cut to ribbons,
trails of red, dripping on the gray sidewalk,
marking my path home through the dusk.

Caitlin Walsh