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.