Fog

We could be on a journey
The hazy morning
Hanging over the river

Green ripples
Answering back

Is the sky a single
White cloud
Or a sheet of muslin
Waiting to be wet

I feel enclosed
Encased with people,
My reflections confined
By convention

The rocking of the train
Is the only comfort

What thoughts do all these people have
What dreams and fears and aspirations
Nobody knows

We all sit in our cocoons
Like patient
Perambulating moths

Love from a Distant Star

Between the interstices of our lives
our frail existences,
do you think we can communicate
more than the snail's dream
within the shell of memory?