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.