Floaters

Driving past a phalanx of white tombstones
             along a south-facing slope,

I recall, “No one hates war like soldiers,”
             from a mechanic replacing

an oil pump to a Fiat engine; then another floater
             appears when I blink—

peach blossoms on flowing water go
             into the distance—

and, as I ponder how a line written in 740
             stays present tense—

a curved thrasher nests in a cleft of spined cholla—
             a man, on ayahuasca,

types with his hands, and his hands disappear;
             he types with his hands,

and his hands disappear—shimmer the words
             as his hands disappear.
More Poems by Arthur Sze