Process

Id

I was born a poem to God's mind;
I was to her a tarantism.
Her fickle butterfly, a favourite, perhaps.
I was God's passion, 
but she gave me a name.

If

In the blinking of an eye
I learned to flutter my wings.
God kissed me often
and sometimes she called me a name.

Then she gave to me, 'you', a poem.
And you were as mine as I was hers.

If only you would rest on my lips,
you fickle, colourful thing.

It

We swam to the silver depths,
to frozen red wine.
And we did balloon into two lakes,
you and me.

Two poems were never a pair.

Id

I bear you everyday
in my poems.