the summer stiffens with rigor mortis; our sweat a kind of chalk outline. you try to find shelter in remembering all the shade you've been thrown, again. try measuring the distance between heat and hate, how degrees have meter; dry lightning that slashes like an ictus, per- cussing the vacationers, "beat it". draw the horizon's flat line, like it's a lifeline; smudge your fingertips until they're an atlas. say, "here we don't come".