Catalina Schist

Two soaring cliffs

wreathed in mist, 

deep-chested chanting 

lacing the island in its

mesh -- slow, resonating 

voices, a pair of somber ancients 

working their stone fingers 

deep beneath the valley and

up through its heart,

a bleached temple 

flying against a blue backdrop,

inset with thousands of blue and white 

tiles and iron fixtures, bells, doors,

welded to itself, massive 

by human standards, walled,

guarded, a white helmet

stapled to the Catalina Schist.

A child on the wall, presiding,

the island beneath him, 

a king, a warlord -- inhaling 

the strength of the temple and,

arms outstretched,

listening with his feet,

chest vibrating like a snare, and

two muscular arms 

extending, inch by inch,

tensed and corded, and

quick as a spring

snatch the child

into the air, back and up

and around and around,

and the child, eyes wide, alternating 

between terrified laughter and nervous 

shrieking, stomach floating then 

plummeting,

struggling to keep hold,

a flickering, dying ember caught 

between sky and stone, twisting

on the exhaled updraft of eternity.