Rooftop In A Thunderstorm Row Missing The Point
With yellow, red and roomy food, and quivered
Crouching on a golden cushion
Undressed himself to disappear
Through an infinity of pleasure
And smiled to free the running me
With "Am I my brother's keeper?"
His meek hand on devils gloves
Shaping running blood.
The prophecy, to recreate the truth
In visions of a seasonal mood
In truth, the only sight he saw
And spat on the rug
As high is high, so low is low
And that's the end of it.