In a chowder of Spanish and Quichua, it cries
I die, Horatio or perhaps I want,
I want or only Soy Gaello

until we wake to truck horns
and squabbling dogs that send us
lurching along pocked roads

with buses and bodies—women
shouldering babies, a stout man
on an old Honda balancing planks

around holes, through traffic
toward an illegal home. We are
asleep and alive and braided into light.