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 GOING UNNOTICED by ROBERT FROST THE PRODIGAL SON by DAVID IGNATOW DEAD LEAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ENVOYS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 1. SUNRISE IN THE TROPICS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON PRAYER AT SUNRISE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |