In the field of traumas come the base savannas--crosshairs tighten
on the flaring pink of the evening.
Recognize the world. After the bit of blue, after a window opened
to air and the portioned stereo of love and grandeur, after--
mother sews a fell-off button, heats a stew, sews at the factory,
re-stews, tires, starts (again),
father shortens a barrel, leans blast-weapons beneath windows,
stacks ammo with scream and apocalypse.
Under cover, you are dead behind the couch when they knock.
From the first, in the glossed-over city where none reprimand
violence, the palms executed along the auto avenues thrive--
a pitch-staggered procession in white-painted trunks.
The memoir has shown how bitter and relentless is the rind--
privacy flowers pubescent, hopeful to outlast time.
Traffic flows or stops on elevated structures in denial of the seven-
and in the aftermath of advertising, children wander the highway in
search of litter.
The citizens are trembling among the trembling.
Against the green strip--against the urbane and its expansion into
the continent, the boulevard is the last boundary between the sky
and the low-lying building,
though it is too accomplished among the rest of the wreckage.
They have their memories. The trigger is set on annihilation.