Reading aloud the table of contents
of a book in an ancient language
your voice twitches, nervous,
like the feet of a gorgeous bird.

My eyes drop from your knees to the floor
and I wish you would stand up.
Birds make me skittish:
their feathers and the air.

Why do you perch so
on the edge of a lamp shade
in a room so full of furniture
and light?

Fingers curl
on the book-spine
as your volumes
dissolve like smoke.

I can’t think of a single
synonym for birds
and your voice is making me
hungry.

- Bob Mohrbacher