This is a man being so much other than. How the love falls out of him, replaced by beads, by water, by nails, by cardboard. Bent on a curb, blowing kisses to dead lips in that window above, a voice calling out a name, her not looking down at the wreckage. A man when there is none left. This is a love poem, a love poem that doesn't want to be, a love poem about shattering open, about groping for what is left when there is nothing left, when subsistence isn't enough, when we are damaged and the memories of what was, are all that is.