It is evening. We think evening
Will cover up our wrong.
Detective tales sing this song.
After the poem is over
We walk the ruins of the day,
Our reputation ruined,
Thinking of something to say.
The first detective story
Was not at all gory.
It was just a matter of a letter
Which compromised the state.
Something the ambassador said
Which was wrong, or merely, late.
The poem I gave to you:
Do you remember that evening?
When everything, including the evening, seemed true?