Nostalgia for the Criminal Past
Those days, we never saved. We never went to a bank except to rob it. The getaway car had no parts to control smoke, our escape route lost in a plume of poisons. We hid on a hill where nobody went; it went straight up. Even animals were winded when they got to the top—raccoons, red foxes passing out on the gingerbread porch. We let our hair grow wild, we never paid taxes. There’s nothing that wouldn’t grow there, soil seething with worms, fog slithering over the oaks, sun going and coming erratically—an occasional god. It was warm sometimes, dogs snoring on the beds, on the green couch stuffed with surfaces of birds. Like the children, we were naked: it gave us time to read. Not having to dress, to do laundry, we built silos of time in which to drown.
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