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...ON THE 'VITA NUOVA' OF DANTE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE TWO GLASSES by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX FREQUENTLY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS SEVEN SAD SONNETS: 2. THE OTHER ONE COMES TO HER by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS CIRCUMSTANCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH WATER WOMAN by JOSEPH AUSLANDER STANZAS ADDRESSED TO SOME FRIEND GOING TO THE SEA-SIDE by BERNARD BARTON |