Blankets

He cried incessantly,
hiding under the smothering blankets
that both repressed and represented
his fervor - encapsulated heat
he was seeking, like rocket missiles
whose target is missing from his eyesight
wrapped in wool like thornbushes
and trapped insight his own humid breath
like kerosene fumes, waiting to explode
at one more flammable thought -
He wraps himself tighter
as she bores hole after hole
to make his star-studded artificial sky,
letting the pockets of air hit him
like magic, giving her the drill, handing over
the golden ball of his childhood
refusing to believe that beneath it all
he alone has the strength to throw off his shawl
and run naked into the sunlight streaming
from the furthest blanket above him,
soft like silk, or egyptian cotton.