Pulsework - Tyrone Ferguson

In the hush between hammer strikes,
a tremor rises—metal dreams.
I do not force its form,
I follow the thrum beneath the grain.
It speaks in heat and tension,
in arcs of welded light.
Each curve a memory of motion,
each joint a whisper of will.
This is no stillborn shape—
it pulses, it resists,
it remembers the hand
that dared to listen.