On New Year’s Eve,
the baijiu goes floating by.
Touching the lips,
too drunk to dance.
The cold is hitting on me,
which I did not summon.
It’s just a habit, I tell myself.
Something left to forget.
I rub my cheek bone,
as I always do.
And find a place to write a poem.
A place with a life-living-sun.
A Wandering Poet 