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.