- Dylan Thomas
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 room.
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.
poro carbón
