Work

It hides its edges

in speed, it has

no edges. Plus every time

he thinks he knows

it close enough, can discriminate

centripetal force

from what gets sheared

straight off,

direction changes:

through stunned space the blade

snaps back,

turtles into its handle

and starts over spinning

the other way.

All along the chopped-up sidewalk

(the need to keep

breaking what we make

to keep making)

the concrete saw

plunges and resurfaces,

precise as a skull;

it glints against

the small smoke

of its own work.