Robert Farnsworth

Winter Clock

Now that, he was
almost thinking, was
beautiful, wasn’t
it? Thrust across
the pearl-sheened
window some
sketchy twigs and
one heavy, black
snow-doubled
branch, and from
it a glossy crow’s
oblique chandelle
away: baton arc,
smoke script, fled
pendulum, a second’s,
the hour’s famously
ordinary signature,
fleeting route, at
the after-fling of
which he couldn’t
really call what he
felt wonder, since
it seemed to have
departed the coast
of a rumored island
and have been sailing
most of a lifetime
toward him.


Robert Farnsworth