from languid beginnings

the day is bloated.

we are swollen on lounges. the humidity presses upon us. our speech grows slothful and slurred. we trickle through the day like rays through the cloud cover. turn to yellows on the tips of palm fronds.

stories are carved into feet. fading with time, rinsed in the rains. in this place, we defy physics, a reprise from reality. the precipice looms on the horizon.

i trace the outline with clenched finger and thumb.