I accuse You with my hands full. Not from a mountain, not from a clean room of candles, not with the silvered mouth of a saint, but between the chute and the press, where the belt keeps bringing the same small wound of metal to the same place in my palm. Absent One, I say it under the guard of the motor: You hide in repetition because You fear the naked instant. You hide in the bolt, in the box, in the clamp, in the blue glove stiff with oil, in the exact return of the lever as if eternity were too ashamed to arrive except disguised as hourly wage. The line answers by not answering. Click. Feed. Lift. Press. Click. Feed. Lift. Press. The fluorescent tubes hum their thin white fever. My wrist learns the religion of no escape. The clock above receiving hangs like a nailed eye and will not weep. I say, Lord—if Lord You are— come out of the pattern. Come out. Come like a rupture, come like a hammer through the roof, come like thunder with Your name exposed, because I am tired of this small...