I have six flea bites on one arm. Now, I know this is the basis of one of the great conceits of English literature (one blood made of two and all that) but, really, I’m not seeing anything poetic about it. They itch, they’re swollen, and I’m holding you responsible!  Such are my words to Daisy in the morning. Daisy leaves an appropriate pause. Perhaps it shows what a good poet Donne was? she suggests. I peer down at her. Something is wrong here, I say, we’ve got this all the wrong way around. I’m supposed to say how wonderfully poetic it is and you’re supposed to draw attention to the itch. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Aren’t you the guardian to the doorway of the real? Daisy considers this for a moment. You have said it, she says.