A process in the weather of the heart turns damp to dry, the gold 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 untangled 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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Poems
RandomI really love poems from different people back from the old days like Edgar Allan Poe or Robert Frost, and more others.
