In Each Look Our Years

that’s it
that I walked into the cafe
and in the noise and crowd
we met

and that I saw
what it was I’d been
in what it was
I saw

that in our skin
in the decade of our skin
is what began
before we knew

and that time before
with this time now
is nothing
waiting to start again

More by Edwin Torres

Water

I am the guest of a prince. I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents. The three of us are unique and in demand. We are each 10 stories tall. We do what we do and what no one else does. Our limbs are a hike, folding path over glory. I wake up one morning and look out the window. An ocean has appeared. Its surface, 10 stories above me, the sun just arriving. A reef reaching towards me through clear blue water crystallized by morning's shimmer. A surface broken by shadows, underneath what appear to be cliffs. The ocean bottom, as deep as I am from the surface, 10 stories below. I am 10 stories above. 10 is where we meet. I look down. A horse is swimming into view. Its mane whipped by morning wind-water. The horse is alone for an instant. Free for a few kicks. Then a rider appears on its back. Instantly not free. The rider is a tourist on an underwater swimming tour, where the horse does all the swimming. I turn my head and see more enter the frame. 10 more. 10 signifying more than height, horse or story. Against the blue-green water, the ocean bottom is visible. Horse and rider float. 10 stories above me. In slow-motion, sounds like. But that's because storyteller remains in the story. They swim away. The water clears as if almost to disappear. My eyes adjust and see 10 surfer punks relaxing at the bottom of the ocean. They wear cut-off jeans and shorts. Some have t-shirts some don't. They are relaxing in chaise lounges on the bottom of the floor, getting sun tans through the crystal clear water. Every few seconds, one of them swims up to the surface for a gulp of air and swims back down. The scene is a constant yo-yoing of bodies going up and down. Swimming with hands to sides, long hair flowing behind, air bubbles tracing their destination. Up and down. Up and down. A hypnosis of breath and water. A reward at bottom and at top. A kind of water that lets this happen. A kind of animal doing what nothing else can.

Hydra

The passing wind-tongue
Drips a ceiling of fractured
Slrrrrp’s to Sllllllva’s a
Slow hydra forms and licks the
Sleeve of fractured whites
Sky breaks flipping in continuous trips
Over thems and to’s by fro my
Ceiling has been lowered my
Expectations answered my
Revelations released my
Ones turned once and finally

There are no fragments in the sun
No holes or twists of darkness visible to me
It’s what’s not there that pulls me
Turns me once and finally threes
And caught to be thrown out to be seen
And the shadow of what’s hidden
Lives in my see...

My tongue...I wish
I could be flippy like that and
Lick what I can’t and
What I have rippling a Hi to me
In licks of breeze and Hi’s and
Hellos

The Law of the Apple

we convince ourselves of what we need
allowing obstacle a rebirth as reason

the ground cracks and our body reacts
adjusting balance with footing, ear canal to cochlea

perspective shifts as focus clarifies, position of neck
to spine merges into planet's gyration

we orbit the occipital orb
the eyeball retracted by obstacle's incision

merged into our head our feet, somehow planted
on our eyes, as ground shakes we adjust our view

our heart follows close behind looking for an orbit
to call its own, gravity tells a story . . .

           . . . has falling helped you see how to stand. will melting
             away

          cover improve intuition. porous like mine. I want to fall in
          the nothing. find what's there. challenge my something
          with surrounding nothing. maybe the certain. question the
          maybe. enter the sweat of what falls before I catch it. attach
          impulse to tributary. feather away grass from its skin. remind
          each blade of my pores. my static charge of light and dusk.
          magnetize distress. vanish emblems of pointed
             palmistry
           
          paining hull. esperanza savior. salivant sonority. have you

          instincted the instants yet. stepped in line. what is the water
          like when followed unwillingly. when skin is checked
          by the surface of surround. the speed of slow.
          who gets wet in the blade of water that cuts the wake.
          is there friction with a name for blend. do I remove the
          image before it envelops. rescue the outcome before it lands.