Fettered, sexual,
tethered rampaging to a mast of desire
like an elephant in musth.
To shave or not to shave?
Is this ultimately as philosophical a question as Hamlet's?
Was Ophelia asking this in the privacy of her bedroom
to her maid who, visible in phases amid the shifting deep velvet drapes,
her hands glinting with scissor and razor blade,
looked on with envy, empathy, 
--jaded, helpless? 


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