To drink, and drink, and not get drunk

Why does everything happen to me? she said.

Every time, as if the whole world were planar,

eye-level.  As a lover, I’d say she’s far-fetched.

Whatever that means.  When do hairs stop

growing?  These are the things that concern me.

Her eyes are the same as mine.  I’ve never seen

that before.  As a lover, she is a busy-body, a

paling warmth.  There is a small—what I’d call

—itch under my left ring fingernail.  It’s been

there for not as long as I can remember, but for

that other amount of time.  I can’t remember

when it first happened.  But I can remember

certain times when I was younger, running

through the grass, watching cartoons, climbing

stairs and cabinets to reach the honey and cereal, 

and I didn’t have a lover, or what my lover 

brings.  I didn’t have an itch to itch, an inkling 

to drink, or an idea what was in the top cupboard.