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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.
Source: Poetry (April 2012)

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This poem originally appeared in the April 2012 issue of Poetry magazine

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