Quiet is not the right word for silence,
for inhabiting your mind so fully
that the spaces that separate thoughts
from words from the world
are at once gargantuan and small
and all of you,
from knuckled toes to wrist bones,
constitutes a cosmology
where you are a heavenly body
floating in silence
but thinking in infinite language.
You are silent, yes, but you are never quiet.
Still, maybe. But never quiet. Never relenting,
never letting outer space
grow larger than inner space, never shrinking,
never packing away forget for the sake of remember.
Beyond your body, the supermarket, the moon,
the supernovas and airplanes and plasma stars,
leaves are shuddering toward your window,
tea finds its way from cup to mouth to belly,
the sky dims its heavy light,
and all you know are
smile, quark, paper, limes, harmoniously, saying.