Taking your touch
– what temporal fancy –
for naught in the past
and much less the present
there for us lays.
It lays thereafter
where torrents connective
There, where emptiness lays
and the disparate in closeness delivers.
Sensing it certain and grasping unable
in there, where nothingness lays.
Ineffable, that void perpetual
where all which is worthy shall seed.
From it and through it,
arriving at once,
the knowledge embodied in madness conceived
by gifts collected from unity’s trees
you touch me and through me are freed.