I love a tornado's dirty teeth. And that wind chimes are stupid. My dream is to fishnet a class five tornado. Root for tea kettles and broken paintings. Cornskins and books. Purple squirtgun shards, a pro athlete, porn, yo-yos, fat Ruth from Flint. Here would be my lobster score, my plate of gulf prawns: a tennis racket, I need a new tennis racket. My brother and I made a superb tornado net one winter. We situated it between two choice pines—six volleyball nets, mason-scaffolds from dad's deadbolted shed, several hundred thousand quarter nails, a case of duct tape. By dusk we were bleeding, freezing, had to de-sap our heads by buzzing them. Five tornados touched down that spring. Sprinting from the chipped porch to the pine trees with Michael, I remember hearing mom's copper wind chimes, twelve of them, like nervous pups, teething, not sure whether to whimper or smooch or serve or piss or laugh or drop or wind chime. The tornado went right through Perrysburg, Ohio, but escaped (Extreeeeeemely narrowly, twisty greedy dumb rude son of a bitch, we told our flat girlfriends), our trap. But the wind chimes. Can I say I think I understood, I think I understood, if only for a minute, why God likes children, prefers children. Insists, children.