Two short images carry this tiny poem, and both are about things that have stopped working. In the first, a clock sits asleep in a forest, "bald as a pear." The comparison is odd and a little funny: a clock face, smooth and round and blank, looks like fruit with no hands or numbers to mark anything. Out among the trees, away from schedules, it has lost its job. Time has no one to keep it.
The second image widens out to a town, where there is "an absence of direction." The word "imputed" is interesting, because it suggests the lack of direction is something assigned to the town, perhaps unfairly, or perhaps just by the speaker's mood. The poem doesn't say.
The speaker seems calm rather than distressed, more observing than complaining. The mood is drifting and dreamy, with a hint of gentle melancholy. It feels like the loose, unmoored state of being between things, with no clock to tell you where you are.