A quick flip of the wrist,
metal spins until it can’t
in violent protest.
Send the hand back again,
the same blur reversed,
the same violent end.

An opening is made,
the way paved in rubber;
for the pummeling of power,
the ghost of distraught horses
now set to pull cages
on metal that spins
until it can’t.

In the summer of 98
at 4 am or thereabouts
I snapped the bar in half.
The drill press didn’t run for two days.