Elizabeth Bishop - Paris, 7 A.M. lyrics

I make a trip to each clock in the apartment: Some hands point histrionically one way And some point others, from the ignorant faces. Time is an Etoile; the hours diverge So much that days are journeys round the suburbs, Circles surrounding stars, overlapping circles. The short, half-tone scale of winter weathers Is a spread pigeon's wing. Winter lives under a pigeon's wing, a dead wing with damp feathers. Look down into the courtyard. All the houses Are built that way, with ornamental urns Set on the mansard roof-tops where the pigeons Take their walks. It is like introspection To stare inside, or retrospection, A star inside a rectangle, a recollection: This hollow square could easily have been there. --The childish snow-forts, built in flashier winters, Could have reached these proportions and been houses; The mighty snow-forts, four, five, stories high, Withstanding spring as sand-forts do the tide, Their walls, their shape, could not dissolve and die, Only be overlapping in a strong chain, turned to stone, And grayed and yellowed now like these. Where is the ammunition, the piled-up balls With the star-splintered hearts of ice? This sky is no carrier-warrior-pigeon Escaping endless intersecting circles. It is a dead one, or the sky from which a dead one fell. The urns have caught his ashes or his feathers. When did the star dissolve, or was it captured By the sequence of squares and squares and circles, circles? Can the clocks say; is it there below, About to tumble in snow?