Eric Torgersen Poems
|4.||I'Ve Come To Be One Who Cries||3/27/2012|
|6.||An Apple From Walt Whitman||3/27/2012|
|8.||No Dancer / Still Walking||3/27/2012|
|10.||When They Draw Us||3/27/2012|
|12.||After Gaetan Picon||3/27/2012|
|14.||The Man Who Broke Up The Dinner Party Answers||3/27/2012|
|15.||Case Studies: I||3/27/2012|
|17.||The Lone Ranger Rides Off||3/27/2012|
|21.||Open Stage Poetry Reading||3/27/2012|
|23.||The Story Of White Man Leading Viet Cong Patrol||1/13/2003|
In the kitchen window
the coleus I cut down to stumps
to make cuttings for friends
is spreading new leaves to the sun.
the light catches
rise from the new leaves;
red seeps into green
along the veins.
at the sun
and looks and looks and looks.
I would visit my friends
but feel troubled and shy.
I said I was hunting deer. I knew the trails, the split tracks and pellets of shit; circles
where they bedded down together. I faced a buck once, for almost ten minutes I think;
I moved first and it left me. I ran home to think.
I had a bow, target arrows, a target on straw. My father said be careful, and I was, but
I sneaked my bow and arrow to the woods. I surprised a tiny rabbit near a hole. It
froze. I had an arrow on it. I moved and it ran for the hole. I never shot.