A circular saw is your tool, rip cuts your specialty. Along the grain but deeper than is reparable.
Time and time again, ravaging beyond recognition. Steel and permanence. A reflex, not an instinct.
Fingerprint of the hand that made you, five senses deep, sixth sense wide.
On a good day though, from the side, I see a water wheel, not a blade. Power quietly generated.
Rippling between your fingers, remembering the webs you no longer have. Resistance, however slight, is pleasurable. It highlights what has been surrendered.
