Art is a dent in the world.
I saw one once
near a little stone wall in Ireland.
From just the right angle,
I could see it from the hill.
A pane of heat shimmer
the size of a soccer ball
floated about three feet off the ground.
Just a dent, perfectly smooth
and not too deep, a shape resembling
the bottom of a wine bottle.
Who knows how these things happen?
I stuck my head in it a bit,
after hours of being too scared to touch it.
Maybe if I hit it with a big hammer,
maybe if I jumped on it,
but I didn’t. I left it there
hoping someone else might find it,
and one day I might find them
and we might talk about it.
