Four Poems

Edwin Torres



Catching every moment, so I have it
Because what if I lose every bit of my time
Every thought, in a word, a letter here 
on the page, in front of me

The receptacle being, managed 
By the output
What is mine, to lose
Would be shared, to win

Who am I to say what is victorious
A family that sleeps on one bed, the size of a floor
Underneath a ceiling fan in the dark
A twilight appearing, to a sleepless eye, as corona

Melted blue by starlit blade
Moon in chimes of five made two 
Because of catching, throwing made itself second
Leaving falling as orphan

What if I fall 
In every moment I fail to catch
Because I get up
Instead of fall back

To catch this moment, on this page
What if I lose this moment 
To all the others I've caught
All the others

Waiting their turn
To be read, breathed into
Re-lived as new, how many new ones
Does anyone really need

To get up and write this down
Again, to catch the light
As it dawns

To go back and fall again
To meet pillow, looking up
To say what again, you know...
Staring at a ceiling I can't see





what was the story about the boy who had little boxes in his eyes and he would send them up in the sky and each box had sunlight inside it for the moon who couldn't find the sun because earth was in the way so the boy wanted a rainbow in the shape of one circle as big as the sky and as coloful as no wind so his little boxes could fly through them and the moon made a giant ring as thin as a deep sleep would let him until the entire night sky had one small cloud stretched out over everything so the boy could float through this thin layer of sky with each little box that came out of his eye is that the story





and they were expecting something bigger
so they left disappointed
and they were expecting something different
so they were disappointed
and they were left with parts of words
so they left without others
and they were expected to leave with words
when the others were left out
so they left
disappointed in the way they were left
without expectation they were left disappointed
and so he took out parts of words
and made the others all of them
and so the parts he left in
were the parts that didn't disappoint him
and so he took parts of what he left in
and made others be the point
and so he pointed at the others
using parts of what he left in
and so they expected all the others
to be the parts that didn't point at them
and so they pointed at the parts that didn't disappoint them
and they left in parts of what the others didn't point at
and so they took what was disappointed
and made it all the others
and they were expecting disappointing things
to leave them so they pointed
and he stood there while they pointed
and he left in what they pointed
and he took what left him expecting 
and expected disappointment
and they left him
and he expected something bigger once they left him
and he took their disappointment
as something bigger than it was
and the parts he didn't take were left for someone's disappointment
and someone made from something what was bigger than the pointing
and they expected something bigger when the pointing was expected
and he left what was expected
and he left what was expecting
and you expected disappointment when you leave what you expect
and you expect
and you leave
and you point

all the parts you fit 
to all the parts you make
to all the parts you want
to all the parts you take





I heard it. Then the running. Then the screaming. Where it happened far away. Making me stop what I was doing. Spill the morning. I walked over to see. Nothing. How nothing became nothing just because I arrived. The machine was there. The object that made the sound. I looked up the road. Down. No dog. Where are you dog. As if my ears had given me something to look for. As if my eyes knew better. Nothing had happened. But only in my ears. What I heard made it real. What I saw. My hands in motion. To make sure. It's me right here. Waving. A man. Swimming in the air. Standing on the road. With time to kill. Nothing to do. But grow. The machine. Taking up the space made real. By imagining the sound before the sight. As if thunder could follow lightning. Sun before sky. Shadow for rain. What morning brings before leaving for night. Those things that follow when nothing else will. The man. The dog. Helpless. Gone. The object. The space. Silent. Warm. The action that happened. Engaged by the thing. By a morning. Caught. In the middle of leaving.

Edwin Torres
Edwin Torres

Edwin Torres is a bi-lingualisualist rooted in the languages of sight and sound. A New York City native, his books of poetry include, “Yes Thing No Thing” (Roof Books), "The PoPedology Of An Ambient Language" (Atelos Books), and “One Night: Poems For The Sleepy” (Red Glass Books). He has work in the forthcoming anthologies; "Postmodern American Poetry Vol. 2" (Norton) and “The Heath Anthology of American Literature, Vol. E 7th Edition” (Cenguage Learning).