The poem
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.