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.

Illustration by Alexandra Maeck

In this album are all of my pictures
Of all of the gliders I've flown;
Of all of the shrines where I've whispered in vain;
Of all of the shoes that I own.
I have, though, no views of rooms I've abandoned;
Nor of birds that have flown.

My shutter, it seems, will not open
On things that are no longer true.
And sadder than that, my depth of field
Has shallowed; now my view
Is glaucomatous. I can't tell you for love
Or for money what's borrowed, what's blue;
Nor old, nor new.

Who are you? That is my question.
I mean as distinguished from me.
Or, say, as distinguished from the punk
Of this beetle-bored tree?
Answer quickly,
It's late and we're losing the light
Degree by degree.

You don't want your picture taken.
Truth told, few of us do.
We'd rather remain unmounted, unframed,
Unexposed, out of view.
Your picture will join all of those I've not taken
Of many before, now of you.

Illustration by Alexandra Maeck