It is seventeen minutes to one.
The candlesticks are all empty
As they’ve been for all eternity,
Because of a window and a sun.
The mirror reflects the back of things
We see first hand. There is no second.
The train appears as though beckoned,
Flies on smoke and shadow wings.
No fire has ever burned in the fireplace,
No sign of ash, no sooty smudges.
Only the mind fixing this room budges,
Urging us deeper into interior space.
Look away, it’s twelve forty-four.
The minute lost is yours no more.
Note: This is one of more than 100 poems after paintings or images, which can be viewed at the blog, Zealotry of Guerin.