Morning, Back in Bed

The brilliance of the morning light burns 

images of sashes on my closed eyes.

Four radiant rectangles in a sea
of turned-off-television, greyish-brown.
And a robin sings beneath the window 

in still air; ignorant of the cliché 

that his presence is.  The dog sleeps 

in the almost silence of tiny, hushed breaths,

jerking a little, in dreams of flying sticks,
or sexual encounters with muscular labradors.
There is no new news in the online editions,
Just a fanning of flames of recent fears,
And commentary offers no great insight,
No radiance, no brilliance,
In the sea of greyish-brown ideas.