Classic Poem

It is a posture for two multiplied
into a bouquet, a kneeling mother
washing the feet of her naked infant
before crossed mirrors, shoes of
different pairs, a chinaman laughing
at a nigger, a maple mingling leaves
with an elm, it is butter and eggs:
yellow slippers with orange bows to them,
chickens and pigs in a barnyard,
not too important—the little double
favors, you and I, a shirt
handed to a naked man by his
barelegged wife, scratch my back
for me, oh and empty the slopbucket
when you go down—and get me
that flower, I can't reach it.
A low greyleaved thing
growing in clusters, how else?—
with a swollen head—slippers for sale,
they put mirrors in those stores
to make it seem—Closely packed
in a bouquet but never quite succeeding
to be more than—a passageway to
something else.