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.