Emptiness form. My fingers ask
your cheek, ask the downed courage
of your neck. My eyes ask yours
what sorrow have dark moons. The golden
worlds let dangle from your ears. If ruin
softens in the smoke that drifts
across the hills, what sleep tells more
about the wayward walks of girls, the sudden
flight of summer from the fields. What grasses
hold a willow basket woven better
than our arms. Your shoulders in my hands
lie down like lambs, like some wild bird
that grants my wish of trust with folded wings
and leans into my palms. Heart flutters
against heart, earth against sky. So I
may touch you with true tenderness.
Emptiness is form. Form emptiness.

Tom Koontz
The Painted Bride Quarterly 1988