In one of my classes, we read a short essay called "Mirages" by Annie Dillard. To demonstrate that what we see isn't always what's real, our professor had us roll up a piece of paper and use it as a spyglass. If we put it up to one eye and held it against a hand held in front of our face, with both eyes open, it created the effect of a hole in our pinky finger.
We were told to write about the differences between sensation and perception. I, of course, wrote a poem. (And yes, I am still obsessing about being engaged.)
I can feel the jarring up
down of earth — my eyes
leading my body
over sand dunes.
My skin is soaked by pages —
I have a hole in my finger,
just under my nail.
Thank goodness
I am not wearing my ring.
It, too, might disappear,
might smell like notebook
instead of metal,
like poetry
instead of dreamlike reality.
