You sit behind your coffee. I sit behind mine. Our eyes are inside us. Silence lies stale between us on this morning whose heat is rent by the singular shrill of a cicada. Our quarrel is stale as a warped slice of bread. Oppressive as this August morning is our love, which, mute as a moth with a torn wing, lurches a path across the table. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: WIDOW MCFARLANE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LA PALOMA IN LONDON by CLAUDE MCKAY SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 4 by CONRAD AIKEN VARIATIONS: 15 by CONRAD AIKEN CAVE PAINTING by HAYDEN CARRUTH LOCKED OUT; AS TOLD TO A CHILD by ROBERT FROST |