There is a foam around facts that is mind. It is even like this standing in Starbucks, stumbling on the phenomenal world. That too is called mind. The stare looks for the mind in stumbling through Venti, Trenta facts. And you want to be a Rolodex of poems! But this looking is just headlights of cars in the mountains at night. It is only the thrill of a solitary deer standing there in a field. Eyes, radium. Sometimes you are like Madame Curie and sometimes not. Fiddling with the radio in the car. A stare looks for the mind in facts, in folds of facts. The stare seeks some thing staring back. Bold and bared. Not an eye for not an eye. But it is mist translation. The mountain at morning is grateful you are gone.