On Making

I held a jackhammer once. It matched me in height and weight and I planned destruction, ripped everything solid from the ground. The concrete was my prey, but it was the tool I fought to master, its metal body trembling beneath my hands. Or, perhaps, its electric heart was what shook me through my last held bones. The concrete, gone, the rented machinery, returned— and I wondered if Sisyphus had imagined a garden where the rock came from.