Felino A. Soriano writes

 Of this Momentum Song (forty-six)

   We’ve fragments.  We

  align to make certain, not

     fake what wind

  does early, mid-sentence.

                         Born here

   if here was distant,

 unexplainable.  The shards

    of Hope are what put

  us here.  Hope in moving,

   hope of meander within

                        an aim is

proof our mouths

 always succeed. 
             Gauged

what engages us,

 timid though alive,

though brief in extent.

   It is here names

  are reinventions.

Bloodlines.  Burned

                  math

 numerical in space     in

cultural anthems.  What

   we cultivate, a

 definitional circle

                 of

  contoured clarity,

 allowing hand and

   nothing to remove

what needs us. 

 __________

To hear this moment --

 encourage with syllable

with small push,

  a birth of what’s

                 to come.  Donation --

     time uplifting, we

   earn then give back,

 back because what needs

       more is weakened

   from weight of yearn-

  ing on knees. 

__________

       These faces we see

   seem foreign.  That of

       what hand does, hand

  sees     shapes mobile lips

    speaking,

             inventing

 toward what new is.

                    Taught early—

  we ran before crawling,

     nearly died before

 talking.  The dead

  survive by dismant-

 ling tongue,     mouth

                      of hum,

  strands of braided bees’

          prophecy in

  the heirloom

                   pinpoint wounds

   injure into     awaken

 

 Honey Hive -- Melissa Haslam