Heat is not an adjective.

It is a thing, a physical being, an octopus

that wraps its tentacles around my neck, my shoulders,

stifling me. Heat 

squats on my chest,

heavy, crushing.

I cannot breathe. 

My mind swirls, my skin crawls.

I try to push the heat away, 

but my sweaty hands

skid on its dragon skin.

Like evil, heat is too pervasive

to fight. Resistance makes it worse.

Survival depends

on not offending it, not 

drawing its attention to myself;

I must melt, like cheese,

into an acquiescent blob.

I would almost welcome

The chilly clutch of winter.

-- Jim Taylor, July 2018