Philip Levine Poems
|84.||The New World||1/13/2003|
|87.||The Rat Of Faith||1/13/2003|
|88.||The Red Shirt||1/13/2003|
|90.||The Simple Truth||1/13/2003|
|94.||The Water's Chant||1/13/2003|
|95.||The Whole Soul||1/13/2003|
|97.||They Feed They Lion||1/13/2003|
|98.||Those Were The Days||1/13/2003|
|102.||Waking In March||1/13/2003|
|103.||What Work Is||1/13/2003|
|104.||Where We Live Now||1/13/2003|
|106.||You Can Have It||1/13/2003|
|107.||You Can Have It||12/31/2013|
An Abandoned Factory, Detroit
The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands,
An iron authority against the snow,
And this grey monument to common sense
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands,
Of protest, men in league, and of the slow
Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence.
Beyond, through broken windows one can see
Where the great presses paused between their strokes
And thus remain, in air suspended, caught
In the sure margin of eternity.
The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes
Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought, ...
Take this quiet woman, she has been
standing before a polishing wheel
for over three hours, and she lacks
twenty minutes before she can take
a lunch break. Is she a woman?
Consider the arms as they press
the long brass tube against the buffer,
they are striated along the triceps,
the three heads of which clearly show.