All Our Trees Are Evergreen

I keep trying to write cherry-tree poems, and it never works; thousands of years of haiku have doomed me to failure. Here's the same attempt, twice.

A hangover is a young man studying law and blinding light, his servant mixing eggs and rum and milk that slide past knifing headache into the brain. Not this faint film, this sense that eleven is too much morning. Yesterday’s coffee in a dirty mug, long trudge downstairs to a cheese-coated microwave. No light to blind, the halls are dim. There are no windows until the walk upstairs again; then suddenly a tree with flowers, white, all separate and bright-edged.

Hangover is a young man studying
law and blinding light, his servant mixing
eggs and rum and milk
slide past knifing headache
to the brain.
     Not this faint film, this sense
eleven’s too much morning.
Yesterday’s coffee, dirty mug,
long trudge downstairs, cheese-coated microwave.
No light to blind, the halls are dim. No windows
until the walk upstairs again; and then
a tree with flowers, white,
all separate and bright-edged.