Duvet

Eyes wide open when
skulls and crossbone clad
you, barely filled hoody, dream
of Hinterland factory smoke:
rather, reap all pleasures of illness,
head tucked under your duvet
like a cosy caped Palermitan monk,
fitting shroud for birthing a new self,
some other day.

Acute, intruding, rush
power lines obstruct view,
fiery they scorch a somewhere
you never knew you had,
curdle your brain at brow's height.
If that fever runs higher
(thirty-eight degrees or more),
if Sunday's thoughts freefall
(thirty-eight feet or higher):
eyes wide open, skulls
and crossbone clad monk.