Eight Million in Cash from Armored Cars

Two young thieves, spent

yet not willing, not yet,

to sleep: she casts her heel

around his calf, her hair—

like that, she’s turning

to the wall, the black wings

inked across her shoulders

lift, stitched open.

Outside, a whistling.

A nightjar sings its whip-

lash ballad, over and over

in that fern-dark valley;

it smothers the whispering

footsteps of agents,

muffles the vague disturbance

of leaves, and retreats.

in remission, limbs gone slack

with satisfaction; it’s that

this is what she wanted:

to rise from certain obscurity

into the air of consequence,

to skim the world’s lush

surface at will, dreaming

even as they’re closing in.