The yellow caution tapes she’d pulled tight 
between the pines on either side of her porch 
were illegible in the wind.  Green splinters 
of glass and wood furniture disassembled 
on impact with flowerbeds piled under her attic
window.  A picture tube rolled across
her patio, posters and enlarged photos
cracked from frames draped chair cushions.
I made it inside just before a futon jerked
shingles from the roof.  She asked me to stay.
She wanted to say every word she knew;
she needed someone to fling them against,
so she couldn’t re-collect them.  I sat
on the floor as half-pages of the OED shot
from her flushed face, dribbled down
her sweaty chin.  She combed fingers 
through her black ponytail and said,
“After all the defenstrations, we’ll memorize
fragments of Kama Sutra, vacuum, reduce
Lao Tzu to confetti and toss him through
my sunroof on the way downtown.  We’ll
buy a couple saucers, live together.”