Old women look intently at Nothing when the doctor 
	announces a cancer, dark fruit, under the 
	shrunk left breast.

Girls' hands hold Nothing when the train sucks their 
	men from the platform and scoops them down the 
	slipway of rail.

Nothing beats in deafened ears on the empty and 
	godless altars of mountain tops.

Nothing is the final strength of the strong: the 
	last poison on the crumpling lips of the weak.


Submitted by Stephen Fryer