how gentle a study
this swollen orb,
burgeoning, it's core,  <<--full stop after burgeoning.  Its has no apostrophe
coming to fruition,
sheltered within the outward curve, <<--full stop
a figure, drawn inside a bevelled lense,  <<--should be lens
observed and set, the fragile wrap,
delicate flesh, swaddled, tucked
in close and warm, motion slowed,
as black on white,
precious seconds, caught,
preserved, unhatched,
snatched, as snapped,
unmatched, not left to pass,
unnoticed,

I wonder at my take, on this,
whether thin as a dissipating mist,
or thick as a ripening fruit,
the beauty inside the blossom,
accented by its bounty,
extends beyond itself,   
outward, as thought,
as each heart, each mind,
perceives, things differently,
the independent eye,
focuses reflectively,
provokes, an intimacy, as near
a rendering, to the actual act,  <<--what do you mean by "the actual act?  Sex?
proof in the shock, the exposed
posture,
of a vivid, living being,

less striking, perhaps,
supposed, suggested,
only, as a random
sketch,
or etching transposed,
atop, a separate image,
might emerge, more palatable,
composed of charcoal,
or traced in ink on parchment,
overlaid, it's parts, taken apart,
rearranged on canvas,  <<--I kind of lost focus in this verse

exactness, far more tangible,
more evocative, uninhibited
as the reach of knowing arms,
held 'round reality,
this perfect space, therein,
the possibility,
of dreams, yet,
to be,
dreamed.  <<--I like the ending but feel it gets a bit buried with everything else