In A Thousand Blankets Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wreathed by the corncob shadows:
Silhouetted by the healthy bones still with some meat:
The headless saddles,
The heartless treats: and the old homesteads burn
With only the feral eyes around,
Crenulated light make a play across the famishing leaves:
The canoes in the garage, the scallywags in the
Eaves:
And the entire street is lost: it seems to swim back a ways
And then disappears- the schoolyard empty;
Its baseball diamond a taboo; and the hands which once
Ran over mine, and through the fields
Of parked cars and airplanes
Have disappeared toward new and more fortunate weathers,
As if my little brother was kidnapped,
And lay shallow and breathless wrapped in a thousand
Blankets of moldering pornographies.