You never really believed the movies:
a man couldn't slice off his prints
with a razor, couldn't evade apprehension,
forever. You thought about
transgression. You thought about
the candlelight by which
this mutilation was always performed.
The night before a heist,
before the first sickening murder,
the retreat into darkness.
You looked at your own hands.
Almost, you could see
all the blood inside them.
Beside you, an aquarium stank,
thick with green curds of algae,
though nothing in it swam.
With a toy net, with brittle precision,
you'd skimmed the last fish
from the dead water weeks ago,
flushing it like waste.
Your television was a smear of sound.
Your sink made you weep.
Or strain with the sensation,
your lungs filling up with heat.
A child once came to you,
dragging a bucket of cheap chocolates.
Your money went
away to where
good causes originate.
Where swings are made
from limitless concern.
No sharp edges. No lead. No cadmium.
That was her pitch, at least.
Later, the old apologies weren't much good:
I'm sorry, never again, you have to understand.