In the morning I look out the window.
The juncos are busy in the rain and the wet grass.
It breaks my heart.
I bite into green onions;
their cool sharp taste breaks my heart.
All these things:
the sound of an unseen mandolin, strummed.
It is raining, the sun comes, two crows fly across the sky.
My friend, knowing I am coming to his house, to welcome me, has bought me a gift, a
I am sick and miss meeting with my childhood friends; the next week I am well and they
smile when I enter the room.
My children are so beautiful that to think of them breaks my heart.
I send you a note, I send you something I wrote long ago,
I am saying I love you, you have broken my heart, I am thanking you.
I have asked Coyote about this (on that day a woman named Marie.)
"When the silence descends, my heart is broken.... am I doing something wrong?"
I tell you how She locked on my eyes, fierce, penetrating.
She said, "Amos! How can you be awake in this world and not be broken-hearted!"
You understand: it broke my heart to hear this; it breaks my heart to remember.
Look, I am set free. I become crow growing distant in the sky against the ragged grey clouds.
You see my footprints.
In the cafe a mother is telling her child a story;
"The dog ate the mop, the cat's in a hurry, the hen's in a flurry.”
The boy is wearing a red coat,
the boy laughs.