Sometimes I stand inebriated by every small thing–
swaying to little blue flowers on the side of a long
stretch of highway in spring, or eyes trying desperately
not to buzz at the pastel scent of laundry snapping time to jazz
on the backyard clothesline. I belly up to the bar of pine
and order another shot of summer. It is poured
slowly, a warm molasses into my glass, and I drink.
I try to stand afterwards, but stumble and fall off my cut
and ringed stool to my knees. In winter, ice clinks facets
against my glass. Nothing tastes like peppermint more
than a face full of snowflakes, and lungs full of this brisk wind.