Ophelia was only twenty-two.

They say she drowned in a small brook.

A branch broke and dropped her.

Unlikely – both the branch and the shallow brook.

She was sad. Perhaps, mad.

The brook, to the river, to the sea.

Not death but part of something larger.

Fresh water. Salt.


In Fever

spinnerBy degrees, words slip into my mind

and spin into lines that make sense

in this fevered moment, but will later

read as the impassioned words of another –

madman, prophet, troubled soul, friend, lover, murderer.