We lived in a movie theater.
We read books about war and fed the pages to mice,
while geese kept 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 bath first.
Archangels resided in our shoes
and played soccer with our noggins.
It was disgusting to think of sleeping
in a hamster’s pouch, in the belly
of a galloping horse or in a winged eye.
It 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 headaches,
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 by a piebald cow.
Rabbits grew their legs leaving them in the snow for a night.