Knoll

I was a year and a half old when Two, loud cracks punctured western confidence Through air; my future head snapped back in grief. There is no darkness to match the one in view. Smoke is seen through the lens of habitual Types of feelings not easily reconciled with Processions of some one’s fear. There, in Times of withered summer and early falls, Fragrances repeat themselves; scents of grass, And romance nurtured on the peak of a hill. Each one of us is, at times, slow to move, Slow to get justice for those who surround us. Up there. A figure swathed in nothingness. Can text be recalled and deconstructed Later? A Moscow man’s ire may be involved.