No, I am not precise. There is a certain music
when you get to the end of the street and
turn left. I like to hold it in my ear—like a pearl
or a nit—because it reminds me of secret
illness, sweating through the sheets. Once, when
you keyed yourself in, I was breathing
in the corner like an animal. A mink—rank
odor, baring my teeth. You say your greatest
fears are all diseases, but here I am. Kiss me.