A Process In The Weather Of The Heart

 A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.

A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.


A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.


A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.

The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.


A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.


A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.

A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.

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