My life comes apart by my arms like small birds. Where do these birds come from? These glances from your gestures are part of the memories of people, the ones who long ago drank in France, in the blond province where my Uncle Stephen Girard was given his jewels from the king. I am absolutely alone. This air is merely an inconvenience. I have too many hearts, and I miss my foolish friend, a woman who was an orphan. She laughs and gets drunk and says, "Praise the Lord!" She spends too much money. I miss her; she calls me "little one." My legs are empty, and this land never stops, not from car windows, not from sadness, and never from the air brush of breath, our mouths together, kissing hard as if we could hold onto something. Selah.