The boy had never seen an honest man. He looked among us every night he said. He eyed each stranger like Diogenes And took him with his lantern into bed. He'd probe the stranger's body with that light Search every corner of his flesh and bone But truth was never there. He'd spend the night Then leave him and resume his search alone. I tried to tell him there was some mistake That truth's a virtue only strangers lack. But when he turned to face me with a kiss I closed my lying heart against his lips.
From “My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer”