Poetry / ee cummings writes about a catbox

freely
furspitclaws
                             springs

leaving notmuch eaten discarded
in tight pats of smell me
unmistakable

amidst sand
that paws (so little they offend notatall)
will not touch again no

til                          and panting
        stooped

cat-mother
heaves sifting
turd-cornucopia
                                    spilt
               onto
                   dull-laminate
floor.