What do you mean by the poem beneath the poem?

The surface is the first
thing: entry, door, coat rack;
what kind of front room.

How it extends into 
the garden, why the hallway
light is always going out.

How many windows there are
and what direction they face;
why there is an unfinished

section on the upper floor.
That's the time you ran out
of money and had to send

the carpenters away.
For many years you were
ashamed to let people in

for fear they might see
that rough space. There's 
nothing there, you'd say. 

But that's not quite true.
There's furniture: the extra 
bed that might have gone into

a corner, a plain wooden desk
for the window; a closet full
of sheets and blankets,

fixtures for a toilet to the right 
of the stairs. Next to the that, 
the sometimes drafty rooms 

where you actually sleep at night, 
under a roof with a few loose 
shingles that bang against each 

other in the wind, spread over 
both everything and nothing
the same way as this life.