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
forewarns
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.
