by Ned O Gorman

by Ned O'Gorman
     When the panther came
     no belfrey rang alarums，
     no cleric spat his tea.
     When the panther came
     the sky and lawn were still.
     The panter came
     through forest，
     through field，
     up to the wall
     and my one blossoming cherry tree.
     I had constructed
     the world as it was
     and had pared the body
     from the customs of languor.
     It pressed its nose against the pane and its gears
     ground me away into ribbons
     of dissonance.
     It turned and sauntered
     into the shadows. Its
     paw marks on the earth
     like cherries too ripe in a white bowl.