Papyrus

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Acorn-brown, the girl's new nipples
draw the young men's rooster eyes
where a woman is fitting a man to her mouth, 
breathing fire, holding for dear life.

Green almonds in their shells:
she knifes them open one at a time and 
hands him a slick teardrop, cool white 
tasting cool white. Nothing

compares with such austerities, although 
the skull's honeycomb of bone
will break their hearts, who need hearts 
like a bird's wishbone, to bend, unbend

at every feathery beat—wishbone hearts,
or something fleet and light as an ostrich's 
leg-bone, bearing him to where, panicked 
with grief, he can bury his head in sand.

Papyrus light: a scarf with black parrots on it 
lifts in the breeze, and a real rare bird
is about to fly—his head in the clouds, his life 
shrouded in daylight he keeps breaking.

© Eamon Grennan