Ho|ma|ge
to la Vitesse, image by Daniel Y. Harris
Excerpts from Of this Momentum Song
Of this Momentum
Song (nearly sixty-eight)
Honored, we
resemble
what
the wing
read into
the
wind’s verbal
harmony, an
appreciation
of embrace in
the physical
adaptation of spirit-
ual
meaning—
unending praise
from
the tongue
of opened
dialogue.
We
do not flail.
Flail
is Impatience
indicating the
mouth is opened,
predicting
rage from the hungry
need to
sustain with an
hour’s blend
of exact measurements,
sustained intuition.
Of this Momentum
Song (sixty-eight)
Premised rhythm.
Paused.
Pulsed in/of
what mentions balance
in mult-
iple occurrences. This
is the word of longevity,
interior
facts fixate on future,
focal mentioning
onto
hope and what
holds our
tomorrows stilled.
Inward, we update
what darkness is, outlining
hope in the hearsay
of devoted, golden clarity. Thrust
from youth
acclimated
burst of what these
hands
ignite, within. Warmth.
Pure breaths are
what uplift
beneath
Wing and what
splays across
our active intuitions.
________
Each seventh day—
as it seems—
an avalanche
of ideas
motivates what it is
or,
how it is
we begin this specified
day of historical, hallowed
rest.
We do not
don the halos of
associated relief to delineate
Day from Sextuplet’s
aggregated symphonies.
We rest,
we find
what rested while
we didn’t.
__________
Serenade,
I/you. You/then I
listen with
intent to invent—
the
miracles oscillate, we
kaleidoscope the 360 degree
fathoms—
then move—
hearing toward
what’s
coming
Of this Momentum
Song (sixty-nine)
_______________
To dwell is to
garden.
Martin Heidegger
Quiet, this ceiling. Crow-
full, scorched sky. Of stoic wings.
Still. Still, I cannot hear
exterior to this gaze. Ballet.
Mirrored fascination—
or,
reciprocated
curiosity, the
developed qualitative
data. Personal.
Personal, what
these
preferences mean. Solid
faith finds what it is we
search toward. To go
but where is
the dual
language
reconsidering
the body and what
portends the legend
of its moving. Much
occurs within
what rolls
into
our going ; our staying
is never what imposes
or
improvises in
variant species,
language. Of
garden
it is
what we like. Scent.
Scent, such as with
April’s pastel
pulling tone onto cold
of what precedes. Music
is what is. Remember
the version
of
silence resembling
a lullaby’s inverted
language?
We missed
light only long
enough to rest
upon
what it is
improving tomorrow’s
future
—Felino
A. Soriano
