Sure as that first command which strung the light
like thread onto a loom
to stitch the finished tapestry of sight,
he flips a switch and instantly the room
reweaves its intricacies
of warp and weft: chair canted against the wall,
nightstand strewn with coins and papers, shawl
draping one lamp whose shadow like a strain
has inched up to the brink
of his rucked sheets, over the herringbone grain
and knots of hardwood where he sees
the nicks and scuffs no brilliance can appall.

Soon he will shuffle down the hall
past photos of his elsewhere son and daughter
to lean over the face of the gray water
dappled with lather in the bathroom sink,
then round the narrow stairs
to where, tie brushing the granite countertop,
he will raise the bounty of his coffee cup
and break his crustless toast alone,
foreseeing the martyrdom of that day's affairs:
the dolorous road to work, the bills and rent.

But now, not risen yet, before the sun
unwinds its bolt of bullion
in his curtained room, and the accomplishment
of circuitry and wattage gets outshone
by simpler majesties—before
the music of the spheres (shrunk on an iPod
docked to his stereo)
tangles itself in the raucous, louder score
of trash truck sirens, horns and brakes galore,
and harrowed shouts below—
why shouldn't he pronounce the morning good,
this god of modest testaments and decrees,
of lesser verities
dutifully loved if dimly understood?