Chainsaw

There’s always a chainsaw somewhere,

the high whine of a drill, somebody building something or

tearing it down, fastening metal to metal.

Almost everywhere the sound of the human will,

the bluster of an engine, the grind of a blade, the wheel,

hammering, repair.

Someone nailed to a cross, someone leashed, lashed.

Someone hung from a scaffold: listen: the squeak of the rope:

more hammering.

Kill him with his own gun, one woman shouted, Kill him with his own gun.

What have we made? What are we making?

And who or what made us that we should make such things as we do and did?

We grow smaller—we break things,

then turn to each other and beg for what no human can give.