Tire me with white lies and petty pretty
complicity—we've never ventured far
from here, preferring civil to the city.
The summer streets don't smell of death, and tar
crossed avowals on mortar and concrete
are dusted away by hairspray and money.
The women walk fast, low cut and high cleat—
and men turn their heads, eyes sunken and puny.
Point to me, starlet, with newer good lies;
watch my eyes receding, beady and dead.
Lie to me, lie to me, lie to me bride.
Gaze into the sockets of slime in my head.
Palms to the temple, and alms to the flesh,
pray to the steeple the tender are blessed.