We lived in a movie theater back then.
We read books about war and fed the pages to mice,
while geese were falling on us through the ceiling.
You don’t believe me, I know,
but they had been all alone in the sky.
We threw the dice to decide
who would take a shower first.
Archangels resided in our shoes
and played soccer with specks of dust.
We kept thinking of sleeping
in a hamster’s pouch, in the belly
of a galloping horse or in a winged eye.
It should have felt like being a driven nail.
We were ready to burn the tongues
of all the storytellers we had ever met.
Flocks of birds lived with us singing about migraines;
there was always soup in the bowls, always sins in the hearts,
and insects alighted on blankets and pillows in the morning.
We counted the hairs of each other’s heads,
and the numbers were fetid like Hondas born to a piebald cow.