I wake up & it breaks my heart. I draw the blinds & the thrill of  rain breaks my heart. I go outside. I ride the train, walk among the  buildings, men in Monday suits. The flight of doves, the city of tents  beneath the underpass, the huddled mass, old women hawking roses, &  children all of them, break my heart. There’s a dream I have in which I  love the world. I run from end to end like fingers through her hair.  There are no borders, only wind. Like you, I was born. Like you, I was  raised in the institution of dreaming. Hand on my heart. Hand on my  stupid heart.