Lou Suarez

Debris

After the storm, we walked

where walls had stood, doors,

a staircase, toed rubble

that was china and cane chairs.

This was the kitchen. That

was the den. We breathed in

whole neighborhoods of plaster

and plumbing. Contagion.

Nearby a chain saw

sputtered to a start. We stood,

casual as strays, and watched

a man, his sleeves rolled up,

encase himself in a chrysalis

of saw dust. How enviable

is the patience of a moth

in the midst of metamorphosis.