Ghazal

--Wendy Battin

The wall erased, its graffiti hang in the air:

We are open all night, like old men's windows.

The trees creak in the cold wind:

doors that rarely open, opening.

A man's borders include the ax he swings, the branch

it splits. The cold peal traveling elsewhere.

And who opens like a door cannot

say who might enter, or question

the gifts we make to morning, boosting

the last of our loves over the wall.