Unsealed Radius

Not a barricade and not an embrace. You want to know if it opens or closes—so does the steel, see how it tries to remember the straight line. Every weld argued back. That gap isn’t an accident. It’s sized for a body, not an escape. There’s nothing nostalgic here, only the logic of pressure: curb trim takes the curve because I forced it, like city edges forced to loop back on themselves, never quite meeting. The glass: yes, it’s fragile—but it throws the sun right into your eyes, doesn’t let you look away. You can see weeds reflected, if you get low enough. The chain isn’t a handle. The anticipation sits between the links and the gap, the moment before something snaps or someone steps through. You wanted certainty? Go to the corner and watch people hesitate at the curb. That’s the weather I work with. The cost? My hands ache and nothing’s settled, not even the shadow.