Selected Works, Felino A. Soriano

  

Nearest portion of

 

my sound-voice

position     entropy

                 learns my

go-to syllables,

   the

  rounded

 artifact given

            over as

   grief as through

the breath I missed

my father lastly let go.

 

 

__________

  Alone with voices, a traveling

 cycle, circling in dexterity

     to open my silence, pain,

  all that can be witnessed

   from distance’s oval

                                  oscillation

__________

 

 

My mother turns her

 head to me, often, listens, likes the vocal contrast of my nonspeaking. 

More worded braids than sentences of sequential obfuscation⎯

 tragedy in heirloom

    leaving, what

   was forgotten.

                 Me, I’m

    made by hand: sound isn’t wandered here,

  here it was said

       I awaken to feel

     for the floor I’d forgotten

   held me cold holds

          my forthcoming death

 

 

Go

 

     Trane’s Tunji plays in

  my ear, in my eye

        a swell begins to

                        follow

     my feet around this home,

  one of myriad physiognomies.

                              In each,

        my parents follow me,

   raise me, reach for me when

     an hour is dark and my face

is abrupt in absence.

                  I watch

  curtains fall into vertical

      reveal:

 

 

__________

silver expression in

the metal beak

indented into

the window’s

achromatic spine--

__________

 

 

     wandering is where I

 needed to go     what

        I needed to do.  Behind me

  now was need looking forward

                         with me

   as introduction to prophecy or

 what roams from home to home,

       a hidden documentation

     in the whole of my parents’

                            oscillating

 

            eyes

 

 

 

What Comes

 

   , or hasn’t yet, yet

  what’s to come, I’m

      expecting before

                      dawn…

 before me, alight light,

    lit afar, focused, soft in

  the hand, solid.  From

     where I’ve gone I’ve

   undergone translation,

 this home a silence of

       history’s going, going

   away from me, these breaths

  and mirror’s interpretive

                         phrasing

      phased in fraction’s

   focal collaborations

                   with

       what’s coming into

  this light and theory of

     desolate

            intuition

 

                                              not whole

 

 

__________

Where I went, what came, followed.  Light, or a theory of it followed,
follows, finding me alone in the usual space: window-near, tableau
explication calls my following and voice confirmation. 
My father arrives, though dead, smiling to the west of me to follow
his example of authentic correspondence.  Alive now, both of us,
though my death’s been predicted in the disbelief of my behavior.