On that bridge that did not bridge, we walked in
two lines
a parade of unsung unison
till the barriers collapsed
till the racist gentry ceded
till the blue wounds of our red blood sprouted green wings
of destiny and a dream…

Which even today speaks of the brothers of nightmare,
those winged hegemons
those armed patrons
those lordly leviathans
who eviscerate bloodier than Sunday.

Selma sings like Baby Suggs in a Tara ablaze.
Moral fabrics stitch it up, the kitchens, the pavements,
the county registrars, they shake when we march
into a blindness we deem visionary.
Spirit, save our souls
make our land fertile again.
Let those who pave mean well.
Let our comrades be not of stone.

And them pulpits from which words leap like
the freedom we have long buried in gulps
swallows gallows and segregated factions,
may the words
sing of glory that is
In all our common pastures.

Skin, veins, palms, eyes,
four by four, a chest of thumps
and starlit eyes of hope.
Montgomery, move past the synecdoche…
Humanity, rise up to the grail of whole.