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.