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.