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

Copyright © 1994 by Edwin Torres. “Hydra” was originally published in Lung Poetry (Self-published, 1994). Reprinted with permission of the author.