The poem catches a small, familiar moment: the radio alarm goes off, and before the listener is fully awake, the news begins. The title tells us what kind of clock this is, and the three short lines do the rest. "Wakened clock" is a little odd, as if the clock itself has been roused, though really it's the person who is jolted awake. Then comes the key idea: there is "not a minute's space between" waking and "news of hurt." No gentle pause, no quiet moment to gather yourself.
The speaker doesn't say how they feel, but the judging by the bare wording, the mood is one of weary unease. Hurt arrives instantly, almost mechanically, as though suffering is always waiting just behind sleep. The poem's brevity mirrors this. It gives us no breathing room either, and it ends on "hurt" without softening it. The effect is quiet but sobering: a sense of how constantly the world's pain reaches us, even in our first seconds of the day.