In the West Terminal of Bob Hope International
Larry Narron

in the air-conditioned belly of this charmed snake,
this anxious river that flows with the wreckage
of bodies and light,
vibrating oasis of souls that even now
goes unnoticed
by the near-sighted travel agents of the universe...
i sit watching rapid wanderers drift
on rubber currents
that buoy them gently along to gates where
airplanes mine them for the sky.
these awkward businessmen are all
fractured uncut gems gleaming hotel secrets,
clutching their briefcases like grails or grenades.
witness the much-coveted ore of tongue
and flashing eye
as women walk irritably by,
their skin-calligraphy perfectly penned in blood,
human odes to divinity,
or divine odes to humanity . . .
all these lost people, landlocked & airborne,
flying and falling and flying again,
a billion shimmering sparks spinning wildly
across heaven’s cellar floor.