Found Object
Copyright, 2000, William Irwin Thompson, from Dialogues with Solitude.

Whatever it is,
it’s not a meteorite;
it has not hit,
but carelessly sits
with a squatter’s right
in casual fit
with the rubble under it.
Flood tumbled,
or glacier driven,
by no hand riven,
Andy Goldsworthy
or Richard Long,
it unsimply is,
but doesn’t belong.

Smugly ugly,
reality engorged,
its edges indeterminate,
puddingstone
or conglomerate,
it didn’t get here on its own.
No longer liquid,
and magma forged,
but not yet metal—
as allogenic as alloquid—
it took its time to settle

here.
But where is here?
Despite these geological scars,
I cannot tell
if I’m on Earth or Mars
in astral projection
by accident or intention.
It’s all very well
to have an artist’s intervention,
but I’m here on my own,
so I’ll just claim
this rock,
born in fire,
raised by flood,
good old stock
of the Creation;
this crud escutcheoned rock
is my flag unfurled,
as we both wait
for a comet’s toss
to cross us up
and kick us out,
becoming asteroidal grout
for buildings of a better world.
--William Irwin Thompson