Return
It was the drums, the lies, the stepped-on papers on
the street, the picture of the first wife of the restaurant
owner was hanging over the till, with good manners
gestures, they passed the plates over the slaughtered.
To see straight into the eyes, he said, to listen carefully.
Deaf savings, sufficiency of that minimal, from wall to
wall, from the statue to the tree, to the lips that wait
patiently and then the cloud, the cement mixer at night,
the excavator, the three construction workers at the
barbershop and the hiding girl pass the suburb with
the acacias.
In every corner, the working phalluses are fired up and
the lottery vendors petrified by the Station of Santa
Lavras. Everything else was nothing but the deep
purple that spread all the way down to the harbour.
Libros Libertad 