In 2010 I was twenty and the

Modesto smell of almond factories and cow dung

filled my nose; these were more innocent entrances.

Grey concrete sat under my unstable soles

and the burnt sky shone little lights.

The laughing people moved around me graceless.

I sensed them like I was looking through a heat sensor.

I saw them smile at me sometimes, but what were they saying?

The dirt on my hands absorbed the heat as we searched

for vacant space to party. This dancehall would be

my sleeping grounds once the white lines vanished

and the bottles were emptied. These were less innocent

entrances.

I lugged my sun-bleached backpack and sleeping bag

Into the empty house and saw crumpled pieces of foil with black

traces of guilt on them, as I opened a fresh piece of foil and placed

my sugar black glob on it. There were no more innocent entrances.

The silhouettes still laughed, still drank, still filled their brains and veins

and lungs and tongues

with ignorance.

Those smiles were contagious, so I slapped one on me.

I believed in it.