somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond my front door, your eyes are the color of wet-food: in your most frail petting are things which enclose me, or which i cannot swat because they are too near your slightest turn of knob easily will unclose the door though i have closed myself as paws, you open always claw by claw myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first taste of cosmic nip or if your wish be to close the door, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this domestic animal imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens doors;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all litter) nobody,not even the toy mouse,has such small paws
Thy paw makes early flowers
of all things.
thy fur mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go a-playing.
To be thy ears is a sweet thing
Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou scratch,
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop hissing).