the flying ship

I lay on my back next to Shrine.

Our heads rest six inches from each other

while our feet jut out in opposite directions toward the temple walls.

It’s mid-day, and we occupy the only strips of shade on the temple carpet.

Through goggles we stare

wordlessly

toward the top
interior
of the temple.

The chandelier swings

wildly

playing a tune
on its many mobile
metal parts.

Now that the windows are down

the dust blows through

unimpeded

like wisps of cloud.

The temple is a passageway.

After several moments Shrine says:

You know

the way

the wind blows through

It’s almost as if we’re on a flying ship.