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.