SARA F. COSTA

The city of herself to herself with words replacing the veins, the city gravitates in the sensitive fragments of verbs. a night movement lives on the highest floors of solitude. the great city rushes in the convocation of men that are lost and found in the same space. the hot age of the earth dies in my hands as I pass this sad bridge which will connect you with Setúbal. you could not pay the houses I sell not even if you double your existence. the shingles linger in my eyes