Whoa, hot.

It is impossibly hot in the sunny, southwest Metropolis.

Like 95 degrees inside, 115 degress in the sun hot.

Like the cats are shedding ALL their fur hot.

Like it isn't possible to knit the baby blanket for Silas because the yarn keeps sticking to your fingers hot.

And the sweaty Dickinsonian oracle, which thinks it is suddenly in Baltimore and not in the sunny, southwest Metropolis, issues this forecast:

It knew no lapse, or Diminution -
But large - serene -
Burned on - until through Dissolution -
It failed from Men -

I could not deem these Planetary forces
Annulled -
But suffered an Exchange of Territory -
Or World -
(E. Dickinson, 568)