You are pregnant now -- the way a poet is, with brainchild.
He pupmed a life in you,
And you are pregnant.
I whispered a thought, and I am pregnant.
I am being stuffed witha wind
That swels in me with my nutrition;
In you, came, a blood-clod apparition.
The fetus grows inside
With the germs of life.
Beads of moments pile up,
And you become a mom.
Thus I fathered an art.
Unlike yours, I feel no end of my cyclic pregnancy,
By day, and by night;
Unlike yours, I can blow it in the wind.
Your one is a shape;
My one is a spirit.