Draft

The brick holds the door.

Outside, the air is a wet coat

hanging heavy on the ribs.

One step in

and the heat is cut.

It’s the cold of a cellar

or a refrigerator left open

full of wax and old books.

The hair on my arms

stands up to greet the 1950s.

It’s a dry, silver chill

that doesn’t care

if you stay or go.