Kafka was the Rage

I stood in the kitchen and painted
Across to your living room window,
Smushing all the planes together
Into foreground, light, and color; the sinews
Of wood running straight to the weather
Behind the glass;
They were a singular thing.
There, a God fearing sky filled gaps in the
Scratches the couch had made the times
We'd pulled it out to do what we'd oughtn't;
And the rising flood was falling
Towards us, together with the rain,
Washing the floor out the window
That was suddely a door of restoration.
And in and in, all of it came storming,
As out and out, all that dirty whoring went
Pouring into the knotty arms of a willow,
Hiding them in her hair on a very distant horizon.
But that was just a picture I was painting,
We're both dirty baby.
That's just the way it goes.