By L. Ward Abel
There is music from Argentina.
It plays a mismatched soundtrack
becomes form fitted
after a slow start.
The wine is good.
Out on the patio a huge grasshopper
content, tranquilized by philosophy,
the exoskeletal Buddha
is lit by yellow floodlights through bushes
they point outward and
upward to a million billion specks of stars,
the atmosphere not a factor.
There is so much clarity.
Clutching at Straws 