"I enjoy the quiet life." (--Martin Yan)

A Quiet Poem*

When music is far enough away

the eyelid does not often move

and objects are still as lavender

without breath or distant rejoinder.

The cloud is then so subtly dragged

away by the silver flying machine

that the thought of it alone echoes

unbelievably; the sound of the motor falls

like a coin toward the ocean's floor

and the eye does not flicker

as it does when in the loud sun a coin

rises and nicks the near air.  Now,

slowly, the heart breathes to music

while the coins lie in wet yellow sand. 

(-Frank O'Hara)

*(for Chris and Rose)