for Michel Houellebecq
The café umbrellas bloom early under a harsh tropical sun. I order yellow curry and a cold beer for breakfast. It’s almost noon. It isn’t easy to say certain things: The clouds are like shrapnel or with so little effort they blow themselves apart, charted by a certain slowness to declare their sovereign kingdoms. The king has died. The tourists keep coming. Children return to their sandcastles as small flags along the shoreline point us in another direction.