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RILKE ON THE CONVEYOR BELT AT LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
from Lusions (1997)

A rick of pages, it falls hardly noticed

into motion, and down the track, unspined,

it cycles time between a rucksack and laundry.

A book no thicker than a wallet or a comb,

it is the unworthy carry-on, newly bought,

colliding with a carpetbag and steamer

on the unlikely navigation into being

where it's not. Each passenger has watched it

circle more than once, a bold intrusion

into the archipelago of things familiar.

There is no fixed point of concentration,

no laughter, no elation when the eyes dissect

the slow descent of baggage into orbit

as if in taking up an armstrap, each handler

slews a body to the spars of his shoulder.

Had Rilke himself fallen, unbound,

lying in united state, he would have passed

unnoticed by the baggage check or porter

who fail to think it odd or such a pity

to tag him at the lost and found.

How many miles had his words trespassed,

how many cities, alive, unread

among all ports or authority, a gold leaf

of art so grand in the pall of memory

it gives the mind encouragement to survive.

Unless unsung like a soldier's duffel, duty bound,

fear spreads its tarp along the spine of language.

Creation can end this way, abrupt and final,

like travel to the ends of the world

with no intent or vision but destination.

"Rilke on the Conveyor Belt at Los Angeles International Airport" © 1997 James Ragan
from Lusions, Grove Press, 1997

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