The first time I made the temperature change, I thought it was the wind.
It was April in New York, 1922, and the apartment on West End Avenue was cold because the landlord had not turned on the heat yet—April cold, the kind that seeps through brick and makes you question every life choice that led you to a fifth-floor walkup with radiators that clanked but did not warm. I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing. Not writing poetry, exactly—more like arranging...
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