A Blanket

It is hot on this island

with its sand that sticks to my palms

that is never warm enough on my fingers.

I sit here and gaze out at that ocean,

and I sweat.

The sand has long since 

creeped into the folds of you--

not so much brown now as 

speckled with tan. 

I think you are wool, 

and you are hot and full of

the heat of the surf. 

I cannot sleep without you, 

stuck on this south, south, south island

wrapped in your damp and sandy folds.