out the train window there's a landscape
that Ophelia feeds upon when her face
lay buried below the river waters. it moves.
in the corner i see the window has a little scrape
where a stone lept up and took its place
of power by means of a man who behooved
his love not to leave, not to take her escape
from her prospects, from pursuing grace
in the form of her pedestal which soothes
her memories of the last time the nape
of her neck was left wet from her tears which place
her sorrows back on the platform in her winter shoes
out the train window there's a landscape which sits
as a man remembers and a woman forgets
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