at moontide, a branch finaled against the wall. waving as the frizzy snap of a violin string. tiled floor, the schema of a chessboard--its black and white slowly drinking rain. broken continuum raised at odd angles, voyeuristic sky boring holes in the ceiling. or a starry break in the window-- by a rock from the idle palm of a pubescent boy. in a room that has flown away from its house, to engender a new kind of dwelling. only a bare mattress rests on the floor, glowing like a turquoise swimming pool. mothering time in its deep dreams of sleep, floating caches of eyeless fish. the room, starving for human energy-- contaminates itself, thus condemned to demolition. yet another unsung, and profound isolation artist.