In films the good guys always are a little crazy.

George C. Scott (They Might Be Giants) chasing Moriarty

through the alleys and all-nights supermarkets,

the neon madness of America.  As judge

he could condemn but never save;

as Sherlock Holmes he rescues souls, gathering

the oppressed, the stifled, from archive,

telephone exchange, asylum – here

the crime's sheer ignorance, the victim

mute, anonymous, until unmasked

and brought back to the world

as Valentino, long thought dead

and buried.  'You see,' says Holmes,

'it's elementary: a gentleman never speaks

until he is introduced.'
Well done, Holmes!  Do you know

what you've deduced – how

the age itself permits no introduction, only

password, diagnosis, numbered file?

But knowledge does not solve.  Restless, he maps

the city's subterranean soul,

pursuing evils a sane man overlooks.

He ends in light,

Watson, cured of doubt, at his side.
Together, against all odds, against

dark, faceless Reason,

they glean identity – not given, won.