Fresh snow down on Twenty Third Street
Hotel Chelsea home for the holidays
slowly up the steps of the old staircase
wrapped in hypnotic black steel railings
following voices that called out to us
we walked the halls with Dylan Thomas
chattering boisterously about modern romanticism
drinking oceans of words in love speaking whiskey
breaths puffing patterned sequences of poetry
doomed to remain cold and silent for eternity
fading away after eighteen straight whiskies
we round a corner
and disappear
into the atmosphere
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