This heat, too thick and sticky to be shaken
from fleshy creases, saturates your brain
until your stupor might well be mistaken
for cool, come-hither posing—but hard rain
is now your favorite fantasy by far:
no dalliance or drink or swimming hole
would satisfy as well as clouds that spar
in loud electric downpours. Thunder’s roll
seduces like a love song; you would gladly
forget fair weather—and when merely teased,
you languish like a lover treated badly,
your sluggish lust for lightning unappeased.
Although you mop your brow and bare your feet,
July still clings with enervating heat.
Editor’s Note: The fourth line is such a tease… the enjambment tosses readers from the possibility of cool back into summer’s heat with nary a break in the meter.