Part of a longer poem. Floorboards

[Lawrence]

I cannot trust my bedroom floor
At night, to keep its daytime form,
Its bowing boards, its croaking planks,
The order of its rigid ranks
Must always melt away like sand
Slipping through an open hand
Till nothing buttresses my bed
But void beneath me, burning red

It’s been this way since I was young
The floorboards scurried from the sun
The clouds outside eclipsed the moon
The windows shut themselves, and soon
I was alone. But not the kind
Of isolation man could find
On ice-skinned mountains, empty homes
Containing silent telephones
No, The kind we only comprehend
Before the start, and at the end.