"Without lies, none of us are beautiful."
"Not me, him, not you, her, not us, us, / not love, love, not loss, loss, not bad, bad."
You and I are two glasses of white rum,
and another curse or a second chance—
"Da-ding … lucky 7s, ding, jackpot"—
and a church basement or penthouse casino,
and wondering if this is the last stop
"to the Terra, where God only glances, / to lay us down to sleep when we are done."
"Didn't you come for trouble, and find it?"
The two of us aren't sorry enough,
for "newer good lies," to bury our kill,
to offer our hands, unlock the steeple,
put out the fire and drag out the people.