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From Ovid in Exile:

I have felt this way, trembled
under your open tap, spin of words
myrtle    the quarter you left
on the bathroom sink new money
silver gleaming              that I have spoke you
name a salve on the tongue's
slow pain            tributary leading down to
& out of its self-inflicted wound
but not to have spoken   made flesh
the body of your words   themselves tender
as bruises          dropped fruit
stirring in bed in half-sleep
the light just touching they stir
            they rise