Mark Doty, 22 September 2005
Thirty-seven clocks in five tiers.
Sunset, end of a mild afternoon the hand of winter’s never quite let go of.
Mantel, cuckoo, rusticated, ormolu, glass-domed, moving brass balls and chimes, porcelain, French clocks with bronze figures, thirty-seven, ranged in the shop window, not especially attractive,
none fine, none precious, even to my taste individually desirable, but studying...