somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond my front door

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 skillfully, mysteriously)her first taste of cosmic nip

or if your wish to be close to 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


About the author: e.e cattings is a domestic short-haired cat poet who sleeps 12-16 hours a day. He writes on a typewriter and always writes in lowercase, because he can’t manage to hold the shift button with his paw and type at the same time.

Recently, we started to find poems around the house—under our bunk bed and in our toy closet, behind the stuffed lion. So we started to collect them.

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