The cats lie flat to the floor
stretched out as if pancaked
by a steamroller. Yes, that’s it:

this July is a huge steamroller
over us, parching the leaves
even as it fills our lungs with dirty

water, making us drip like leaky
faucets. We are cooked through
and ready to eat, if you still own

an appetite while your bones sag.
I dream of glaciers, but even they
melt now easing into the ocean,

pushing rivers out of their banks.
I think I’ll climb into the freezer
and shut the door tight.