THE POET OF YOUR FLESH

I try to see you
as you are

you who
are not

...as yet.

Perhaps?
The size of this

.   full stop. . .

Or pollen now
upon a bee's back?

I am busy
as you see

creating you

an alphabet of who
you could possibly be.

I create your face.
I create your smile.

"Sculpting with time!"
I call it.

You busy
creating your own thought.

You are everything
I see

as you unfurl
yourself into being.

This passing butterfly?
This thrush's egg?

I growing you
within me

this tiny seed
of yes

clichéd love
I know

you will have to forgive
my lack of words

to hold you
in thought

I only the poet
of your flesh.

Enchanted
"enceinte"

see my French is
coming on

as you are.

So, let it be
my soon-to-be-be son.

My  John
my 6ft something

man you
have become

the film run
backwards when

I knew I
had first conceived you

and tried to think you
into being.

Your 40 year old smile.
Your kiss now.
Your "Howya Ma!"

You the living treasure
impossible to have ever

imagined.