For Stevens, a poem was a meteor; for Frost, ice on a stove:
this meteor declined in language from meteoroid to meteorite,
ice-burned, refashioned by knocks to a knapped flint axe-head.

My Bonhams catalogue informs me ‘falls’ are meteors tracked
from sky to landfall, ‘finds’ field discoveries. Like Clare’s poems,
so he wrote, a self-consuming woeful meteor and meteor hunter.

Found by Moroccan shepherds, who dubbed it The White One,
this fusion-crusted eucrite polymict breccia is set in a clastic matrix,
exsolved pyroxene, calcic plagioclase; Bonhams’ prose crackles

like the burning straw Clare heard as his white meteor came on –
it seem’d a will o whisp till it magnfied darkeness so; I felt closed
by a circalar black wall, frit I’d fall in some glaring gulph at my feet …