I wrote this poem in honor of any non-Japanese who kept Japanese-American property safe on Bainbridge Island, WA, during the WWII Japanese-American Internment. If there even were any such people. Most other Americans ripped off J-A property, and bought their houses from the US government for cheap. Now that you're duly warned, go ahead and read to your heart's content.

Are broken sideways.
The moon is the guide,
time and time again,
muddy as bean-paste
mixed with vinegar.
Oars hit waves.
My old self sits again,
with a bit of madness in me.
A big ball of snow,
not quite his fill;
piercing alarms to drive a badger away,
the beautiful pears ripe in his garden,
who my neighbor truly is.
In a way, it was fun not to see Mt. Fuji in foggy rain.