Dazzling

Tropical Doldrums

We have come so far north you could wring the air.
The doldrums of the equator are overhead,
and forwards or backwards are forces of will.
My orange sarong clings to my clammy limbs
as I swim without speed through the atmosphere.

I am collapsed on Trinity Beach, with a postcard
view of the Coral Sea. Everything is still.
The palms present themselves as props,
essential to the tropical mise en scene.
I am an extra, too drained to raise my glass.

I could do nothing, if this were my home,
nothing of smarts, or of art. It is all I can do to turn
the pages of books, which, when left on shelves,
are host to specks and sprinkles of mold.
This heat, wet and slow, is drowning my pride.