"Staycation Las Vegas Dawn, Apollo": a poem

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I look East.
A lowslung  pile of building, mountain, cloud,
Snuggled up and down tight along across the whole horizon,
the buildings one long ridge of live barnacles basking in cold March Sunrise,
the Sun itself now only just hid behind.
I await the Sun-itself any moment now, but first I give glance upvalley West.
There, sudden, the whole reflected Sun is splash white-gold
Booming off an east-face plane of office-building windows.
I know those rooms.
Through these panes now flows those rooms’ first light,
Slipt thin-sliced in through blinds yesterday haphazard-shut.
First-light moves within in soft beams.
It brushes off the last of lonely overnight from off each table-top.