It is not accurate.
It has the best kind of author: anonymous.
Its proportions are unperfected.
Its best features are accidents.
It glows. It is white.
It squints through too-small windows.
It floats slightly above its plot.
Its plot is too green and grounds dwarfish trees.
Its roof is shingled black.
Minute crosses interrupt its windows.
Nature hangs like a hookrug around this house.
Here is an errant hair from one of the brushes
Self-Portrait as a Drawing Recollected
It flings itself at every unexpected
crackle, each light from passing traffic,
all damp-muffled steps on pavement,
and then again it makes its
flurried arc, its respooked self-