The house this morning-with its truths
scrambled, blankets and feathers, the start of the day
already in flux-drifts like a poor little boat
between its horizons of order and of sleep.
Objects want only to drag themselves along:
vestiges, entropic followers, cold legacies.
Papers hide their shriveled vowels;
the wine in the bottle prefers to continue yesterday.
But you-The One Who Puts Things in Order-you shimmer
through like a bee, probing spaces lost to the darkness:
conquering light, you with your white energy.
So you construct a new clarity here,
and objects obey, following the wind of life:
an Order establishes its bread, its dove.