Already drunk, we walk a half mile
to the mostly empty hotel
and buy two bottles of vodka at the bar.
We use the old money,
soft and pocket worn.
The dining room is hot from the fireplace
but we don’t bother to unhook our coats.
The man wraps the bottles in paper
and we leave.
Walking back,
there is such satisfaction in seeing the winter sky,
the rapture of night in infinite ink.
Everything is still with ice
except the soft squares
of light farther down the path.
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