The riderless horse stamps its hooves against the pavement. Smells of
Coffee and rolls drift on a cold breeze from another part of town.
Reflected in the crazed, black surfaces of puddles, ice hangs
From the gables of churches: mourning jewelry of the earth and sky.
Wrap the heart in blankets and bring it inside. Clothe memory
In its best dress, no matter the color. Give it steaming liquids by the fire.
In my right foot, I could not feel the cold, or warmth either.
Headache and sudden nausea, blurred vision from the brain—
Sometimes a chill moves up and down my leg, reminds me of
Your fingers when we were last together, your breath along my spine.
GEORGE FRANKLIN tries to squeeze in as much as he can: he is a poet, teacher, critic, yogi, father, and attorney. His poems have been published in The Ghazal Page, Salamander, The Threepenny Review, The Quarterly, and Verse, and his criticism in ELH. Ghazals have been a great favorite since he first heard Agha Shahid Ali read years ago in Cambridge, MA. He now lives in Miami, Florida, where the streets stretching west to the Everglades remind him of the lines of ghazals.