An August Night
by Ted Kooser

High in the trees,
cicadas weave
a wickerwork of longing, longing.

In the shadows between two houses,
a man peers into a room through the hum of a window fan,
the fragrance of his hair oil
like distant music, far too faint
like distant music, far too faint to awaken,
to awaken the naked girl
on the clean linen of moonlight.

High in the trees cicadas weave
a wickerwork of longing, longing, longing.