The house is ash and embers, nothing to reclaim
That I can see,
Unless this china plate and cup set as for tea.
As well, perhaps this metal crutch: the man was lame.
I did not know him well. Somehow
I never waved nor called. Well, not now.

He was a teacher, of some science, did research,
Somewhere far north, collected stones,
Assigned them ages. Was not a member of our church,
Was not beloved by those for whom he did his work,
Those matriculants all drowsing, drowning in his stones,
His knotty, tangled talk. Their hooded eye,
Their smirk.

Why stones? Such things so dark and mute.
Of Pliny, Dante, Augustine I would perorate
Were I what I am not: the teaching sort;
Were I this man whom I knew not,
Whose house is burnt.

Whose stones, however, now appearing
In the sudden streetlamp light,
Studded in the soot gem-like,
Are Cygnus, Ursa Major, Virgo just as if
This sodden, reeking char
Were starry night.