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

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.