A.S.J. Tessimond

O

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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.

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A.S.J. Tessimond