When they say “swarm” / What they mean is us. / What they mean is black / Mass of wings, a single fist / Flying, indecipherable / Chants.  What they mean / Is body.  What they miss is / Brain born of lifetimes, / Mind made of centuries / And sacked catacombs, / The sweet they breed us for. 

Say timbales, say conga, / Say sinew and stilettos, / Say thunderclouds conjured / From a man's hard hands,