Child waves
from car ahead.
She knows me then. Do I?
Who hangs here locked away behind
my eyes?

My eyes
see pain, chilled rain,
last waves, your laughed-at plans —
yet never look with any sense
at me.

Gray chill.
Men’s eyes cast down,
hands tending bending rods.
Cloud Stream hides golden fish as old
as God.

What are
these dire dead sounds
in dense fog near my head?
Youth dreams that toll away? My screams?
They go.

Cloud Stream Fog Morning appeared in March 1996 on the Aha!Poetry website and is still there.