From Other Mothers

i am a invention childless
for the trees are a kind of faith
with white tingeing beards
i gave my wrenches away for research
to the baby faced union grand
silent disease through a harvest of glass
a hide stretched drum announces
winter counts of your father’s past
times you two in the trench
over the scratch riding of vinyl
sunday with paper and reggae and spliff
woken by the toaster accident
to the only alarm a brother can give
foretold to us on these lucky days