Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the
street, flaws of grey,
Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of
festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding
of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections
against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret
into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon
upon the tops of umbrellas.
The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed
it bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric
fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain -- and freeze again to red slippers,
myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of the window.
They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson
they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked
in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds,
flared and burnished by red rockets.
Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet
in the white, monotonous
block of shops.
They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion
into the crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement.
People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther
is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few minutes
and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair,
lolling awkwardly in its flower chair.
One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard
lotus bud before?
The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there