North of Atlanta
North of Atlanta as the moon rose
lightning fretted in the west:
I turned and walked away
back to the motel where ghosts
moan in the airconditioning,
moaning for air.
I tread the dry Nihil
in these polished shoes--
Oh, for God's sake, for God's sake,
speak!
On.
Nihil.
copyright © 1998 Gordon Fitch