Schema

　　by Richard Greenfield

　　 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.

　　-