we dream—saber black men edged against the steps
in daunt and all that undercurrent doctors do—to
firebrands from tree limbs dangling, to cherry trees down
and dire plaster-faced italian sons once seeming light—
eyes beyond the shores and faces flint—ears in full
accord, shut against the cry—jews and jebusites tabled, too—
and what we make is wild—how we do and all we face in fall
—by salted waves careen, come salt of earth and past the drum
of beats unseen—all writhe of presents born, take name
in this our sudden sum: one, and one, among the steady stars
and our forever made—