The sun ends up eclipsed by a a mountaintop in the northwest as a nighthawk flies by my window going east I work on a book of asterisks in a quest for ataraxy Panning 180 degrees so as to quiet intention and invite curiosity to synthesize and intrude Consider the very thoughts that I would otherwise be loathe to give a handle to Freshly detach my way to a sense of empathy Issues that were up for grabs and are now in play Which brings me to mind of women I know for whom loving is a foregone conclusion; for whom hints are the finest choicest of candors For whom detachment or the appearance of the same allows a curiosity of viewing that can quickly ignite into passion How disturbing to realize over time that many a game's finer moves may involve not caring, except to take not, of how a game turns out... As though the word blase' has affinity to ablaze I would not be dis covering such notions if it were not for the old poet's trick of letting yourself fall in love as passionately as you can fall, for if nothing else, you can milk the emotions for poetry... An A device for upping ante, or a cynical hedge...?