Wrote an extensive treatise

insisting Life is change, 
having canvassed the canons,

philosophy, science, so on,  
but centring on one life—

I renounce it all.  
Should not have changed.

Should have stayed 
cleanly bathed in my light-

house gaze, casting, in return, 
his own glow.  One consummate

arrangement, one time.
Couldn’t. The chrysalis split,

released a whole 
other answer despite all.

What I wouldn’t forgo 
to reverse, all the way back

to completion’s 
precise source, that walk

along the shiny corridor, 
pushing the tiny, trans-

lucent crib, asking, 
exultantly, Is he mine?

Is he really mine?