Anton, with a birdcage in the corner of the room
He is thinking that she is a waste;
that the way the birdcage sits empty in the
corner of the room is ridiculous as a fashion
statement, and should have a bird in it.

He is thinking about discarding her,
but hasn't made up his mind yet.

He is thinking that the way she hunches
forward in bed will ruin her posture,
he thinks that he would like to run his hand
through her hair, feel her skin between
his teeth.

He is thinking that he would like to taste
her, if only the smell of her and not the
deeper honey of her bones; or the milkiness
of her blood.

He is thinking about the thousands of birds
he has seen in his life but never noticed until now.

He is thinking about the inner curvature
of her knee, about the way he will hurt her
when he leaves.

He is thinking that the birdcage is a symbol,
something in the deep set sunkenness of her
eyes, or the way her mouth twitches while
she sleeps.

He is thinking about how easy it would be
to silence his mind, if only he put a little
thought into it.