A real re-vision, though — I’ve smashed together pieces of two other unfinished poems. Not satisfied with the ending. But more satisfied with what I’ve got now than what I had before.Heat Wave I’m stranded on August’s flat tar roof with only a cheap, generic popsicle and a relentless song stuck in my head: Oh no not I, I will survive, boring into my brain like a mole, its insidious whiskers making me crazy. These weeks creep by like sadistic turtles, and summer puddles around my ankles. I wish I could hurl a dart at the map of the world and transport myself someplace Nordic and crisp, but the best I can do is open the National Geographic, ogle centerfolds of icebergs and oceans, or press the cool, glossy pages to my forehead. October is unimaginably distant – like a language I once knew and spoke fluently on a mythological continent where the north wind tore confetti from the trees and fallen apples softened, bruise by bruise, and sunk down into mulchy scented paths. I dream fragments of that lost city as I fester between the fevered sheets of this stalled-out summer.