In the field of traumas¹ come the base savannas——crosshairs tighten²

    on the flaring³ 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 grandeur⁴， after——

    mother sews a fell-off button， heats a stew⁵， 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 auto⁶ avenues thrive——

    a pitch-staggered procession in white-painted trunks.

    The memoir⁷ has shown how bitter and relentless⁸ is the rind——

    privacy flowers pubescent， hopeful to outlast⁹ time.

    Traffic flows or stops on elevated structures in denial of the seven- point-two，

    and in the aftermath of advertising¹⁰， children wander the highway in search of litter.

    The citizens are trembling among the trembling.

    Against the green strip——against the urbane¹¹ and its expansion into the continent， the boulevard is the last boundary between the sky and the low-lying building，

    though it is too accomplished¹² among the rest of the wreckage¹³.

    They have their memories. The trigger is set on annihilation.