Ophelia

Leaning, she touched
the river's cold body
but could not reach
those bright shapes
unravelling in darkness.
On its mirror-skin
she saw a moon, shadowed
with white, trembling.
Now all her breath
sucks the river down.
So thirsty!
How salt-contempt
rubbed itself deep
in the wounds of mind.
Face open like a flower
she falls from air.
A dankness of weeds:
bound feet, wild hair.