Tuesday, July 25
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. (Arthur Sze)