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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 veins1 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 fathomed2 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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