Filipa Leal Poems

Today, the cars, too, are dancing. The houses are moving gently. And I - who moved house, changed clothes, city and bed, words...
...

The city rocked like a boat. No. Perhaps the ground would crack open somewhere. No. It was the giddiness. It was the departure. No.
...

On sad days you don't mention birds.
You ring up friends and they're out
and then on the street
you ask for a light as if asking
...

I was thinking books are weightless. I mean, they float upon the understanding.
Upon memory. Or even better: they are steady because they are not people.
They have no nights, no insomnia. They have no sleep in them.
...

And there she was - we, crossing through joy
by boat: father still in a moustache, brown hat,
mother wearing glasses and a scarf, Marta, who'd soon be a mother
...