Not in this place,
Not in the Texas summertime
When centenary temperatures loom.
When I was young
In summer heat I learned well
To go from shade to shade,
And never fast, but made a pace
Like that of lava creeping to the sea,
There to leap at last into the cooling deep,
Just as I have yearned to plunge
Into refrigerated rooms.
If those who wrote the Gospels
Lived in a climate like the one I know
It was no stretch for them to think of hell.