somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond my front door

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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
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thy paw makes early flowers

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Thy paw makes early flowers
of all things.
thy fur mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,purring
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go a-playing.

To be thy ears is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou scratch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop hissing).