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- point-two, 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.