Santa Catalina Island Viewed from

Venice Beach

1.

Facing Catalina, I stand as still as I can, as if the island is a small bird that might startle to flight.  

Blue and remote, the island is no further than anywhere else in my city. 

Its mountain shares a horizon with a summer-setting Moon. Watched too intently for too long, both vanish behind clouds. It’s a fugitive’s habit.

2.

Venice and Avalon are pilgrimage sites, two American Canterburys. They traffic in relics: postcards, t-shirts, an ocean’s blessed water.

Both beaches endure a Jerusalem heat. Tourists are sun-smote, their eyes sunken and weary.

One woman has her finger behind a sunglass lens, wiping something away. It’s a lash, an itch, a cinder, a tear. She does it again.

Poor traveler: what brought this on?

3.  

Last night’s TV aired hate without interruption, even after I switched it off. Can’t sleep. At sunrise I walk the mile between my bed and the water. 

No one else is out. Even the gulls are silent.  To the south, Catalina reappears, crisp and quiet.