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