The alarm in the morning is made of rubber
invents the day around it like a drum. Leonard Cohen.
Um. The alarm in the morning is made of stones
we unearthed near a horse. My father, smoking a cigar.
The drip in the tap is the colour of moss. It drips five
six. Again, I taste rust wake nicotine – my grandfather.
A faucet, digital alarm clock, green, ripe olive
porcelain awakening. Rare fish skit, arc. Robert Hass.
This is a poem without mothers.
This Is a Poem Without Mothers (이것은 어머니들이 없는 시다)
22 May 2011