That's a clock.

Of course and it always is 

a clock

and neither those plain numbers nor these gravels care

about a crash or a bag filled with sweaters,

scarves, a novel,

cards.

Marbles roll on the platform.

Snow is papery on the chalet roof,

papery slopes, proper mounds of log.

Radio, radio

smoothly.

The iron, the concrete, failing

under blue sounds of sound lakes

and canceled designs of swans. 

Nothing is strong enough to differentiate between a mist and steam

for the gridlines are but

cypresses.

Marbles roll.

That's a clock.

Of course and it always is 

a clock.