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Your wonderboy—he showers
within a splash of the two bare bulbs
whose ceramic shades he shouldered
onto the tiles, opening
his arm in a crease
deserving better account
—like my brother punching his cupboard door
and revealing its hooverbag cardboard
before turning against himself;
or the myopic scrawling
which covered—in two
half hour stretches—the door to his room.
He flatters, despite certain rebuff,
apologises
for shuffling through the night,
dreams he is a mother that lost a child.
You find his breast as his hands prove
anything but wandering, sigh.