And here we are again, all three of us.
In the rocky depths of brother's house.

We lie fat man style upon separate couches, limbs sprawled like woody roots, deep and hallowed, we do not bend. And you might think it was too late, but breakfast is just served, sitting only miles away through arches and sediment and evening dew, but we do not bend.

We sit with childhoods to
keep us distant, and laptops to
keep us wet, and soft drinks to
keep us bound.

We've never seen quite eye-to-eye, because the oldest is somehow shorter than I, my twin is somehow taller than I, and I am somewhere darkly between the two. We watch the world from different peaks, we watch the worms from same-ly roots, we watch each other from herbaceous trunks that twist, and laugh, and love.

We've never fought, perhaps because we are brothers, or maybe because we were born by the same shift of weakly timed pollen. Whatever the reason, we are here, we are separate and abut, and we do not bend.