I didn’t like sex in the beginning.
Somewhere in Greece, the sea eroded rocks.
There was no oracle. Spring lambs roasted

on wooden spits, sending a charred scent
into inland towns, smoke gathering on rooftops.
I had been lied to. Women, too, were violent.

The presidential candidate praised drones.
My sister was in the psychiatric hospital.
My mother kept repainting the kitchen.

Burnt orange, lime green. A dirty sort of gold.
In the nightclub bathroom, I inhaled strange
vapors, then smashed my head into a wall.