Simone Weil at the Renault Factory (1935)

A thread in a line of threads, she stands
at the far end of herself. Eyelets and inlets,
divots for ingots. Migraines are the grain
of the day. In the awl's hollows, the nothing
God is to teach us the nothing we are.

The coupe is a cave. Go in and kneel
on its seat. Hands tool the tools
without us: to work to eat; to eat to work.

Where are the streets for such vehicles? Not yet
made. Where's the fuel to make go Go?
Underground, still pressing itself to become itself.

A cold outside comes in.
The coupe is a cave.
Shine its horn; shine its blast.

Punched-in lead holes; the head aches when it's
emptied out. The cave wheels forth—God,
where is it going? Into more rat-a
tat-tat. More hands, less us; more air
in the airguns, less loud the heart.

Copyright © 2004 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from Kenyon Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission