Framed.

The middle brother was a sleepwalker.

He could be found surrounded by

quarter eaten easter eggs, or marooned

on an ocean of ripped wrapping paper.

 

We camped the wild garden

at the cliff edge. Tarp strung

between beech trees, and he,

ankle-strapped to me.

 

One xmas morning, Santa and then,

somehow, mother, found him

at his bedroom door, hanging there

from its frame by his fingertips.

 

Unhooked, indignant and ruffled,

he took the slow sleepy shuffle

back to bed.

 

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