Half-cocked
running down the road in “crocs” — unplanned
Once a Wheatfield boy, always
***
When you’re drunk
each little moment becomes enough
Like being a child again
But not quite.
***
I like to think of Ryōkan hungover
the poems people never talk about
those that were never published
Cherry blossoms falling on a rotten,
headache day
***
But the lights still speak to me
exactly the same?
Voluntary Japan 
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