The Panther

Exhausted, he sees nothing now but the bars
that flicker past him in a blur;
it seems there are a thousand bars
and behind the thousand bars an empty world.

The drill of wheel and return: turning on his heel till
he seems to pass through his own body - like whisky
swilled to the neck of the bottle then back on itself.
He swings on the pivot of his numb and baffled will.

Sometimes, though, the sprung shutter of the eyes
will slide open and let an image enter - a face, perhaps -
shooting through the tensed muscles, lightening
the limbs, streaming into his heart to die.

The Gazelle

Tranced creature: no rhyme or ringing words
can match the pulse that rolls
through you like a charm. Horns spring
from your head, adorning you with leaf and lyre,

and you are your own metaphor,
just as the words of a love-song
are like a drift of rose-petals, closing
the eyes of the tired reader, so as to see you -

there - hair-triggered,
four legs pointed, ready
to recoil and ricochet away

but waiting, listening: just as
the bathing huntress heard the forest stir,
and turned, the quivering pool reflected in her face.