Summer Dream

I sleep in this summer,
against the dried and wrung out
stiffness of its air -
like an extra firm pillow.
I cannot burrow out a cleft and
.
 .
  . sink slowly into slumber,
but instead BOUNCE
abruptly upon this yearly sedative;
this mandatory rest
It calls to me like some confused hibernation pattern.  
In this swelter which makes feet slow
to an easy plod,
while the fire of dazzling days
SNAPS
and spits flames against browned skin.
Heaving us charred and
well-lived and free
of our centripetal thoughts
from a colder time,
like some kind of
Dream.