You haven’t been drunk
until you’ve stumbled, tumbled,
fallen into a snow bank,

2 a.m., January,
prone and laughing,
moon overhead,
full and yellow.

chill coming at you
from all directions
but the warmth in your gut
from all that whiskey
convincing you it’s
fighting back.

Haven’t loved either
until the same thing happens.
You drop down into
the drifts, stay there
like a snow carving.

There’s a grin on your face
like you’re showing that
full moon what a new moon
looks like.

And you’re taking in chill
from everywhere.
And the warm
can’t give it away.