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.