Each day their cheeks recede a little more,
their hair falls in larger clumps
only to become lining for a bird’s nest.
A bird as simple as the sparrow, spied
by the wife of the man who owns
one of their land's largest homes.
Her skin soft as fleece, this woman,
who cultivates just the right seed
to attract the prettiest birds,
smells like the inserts in our magazines,
the ladies in shimmering evening wear
who seem to fall from a net of stars
far from the grenades
donning the young boys we photograph.
