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About this poet

Edwin Torres is a bilingual, New York-based poet who's a self-proclaimed "lingualisualist" whose work is "rooted in the languages of sight and sound.” He is the author of multiple books of poetry, including Ameriscopia (University of Arizona Press, 2014), One Night: Poems for the Sleepy (Red Glass Books, 2012), and Yes Thing No Thing (Roof Books, 2010), among others.

He is the recipient of poetry fellowships from the DIA Foundation, the Foundation for Contemporary Performance Art, the Kimmel Arts Center, and the New York Foundation of the Arts, among others, and has performed his poems worldwide.

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

Copyright © 2007 by Edwin Torres. “In Each Look Our Years” was originally published in In the Function of External Circumstances (Nightboat Books, 2007). Reprinted with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2007 by Edwin Torres. “In Each Look Our Years” was originally published in In the Function of External Circumstances (Nightboat Books, 2007). Reprinted with permission of the author.

Edwin Torres

Edwin Torres

Edwin Torres is a bilingual, New York-based poet who's a self-proclaimed "lingualisualist" whose work is "rooted in the languages of sight and sound.” He is the author of multiple books of poetry, including Ameriscopia (University of Arizona Press, 2014), One Night: Poems for the Sleepy (Red Glass Books, 2012), and Yes Thing No Thing (Roof Books, 2010), among others.

by this poet

poem

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

poem

The man, the woman, the dog, the ball.
The black man, the white woman, the black dog, the red ball.
Not once did I mention
the relationship between the man and the dog.

Never the lover, the ball. Nor the woman kiss
the man before the ball returned by dog.
Nor did I bother with waves,

poem

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