We who pant and part in night's divine design

We who pant and part in night's divine design
Lard the stars with tissues of our lies
Spitting hymns and oaths of “evermore”
Till all darks daunt or are blindly malign—
Full of the guilts we spritzed at the skies,
Chanting fabrications by the score.

Will you sit a little while beside me
Anyway?  Put your hand into my lap,
Let me have my way?  A little while beside me
Lay, and a little love let dribble in our laps.

Lie with me a little while, tell a fib
To the fibulating stars that hear our hearts;
Its not as if they weren't used to our raw squibs,
Or its worse than what we told ourselves to start.