The Fish

 wade
through black jade.

 Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
 adjusting the ash-heaps;
 opening and shutting itself like

an
injured fan.

 The barnacles which encrust the side
 of the wave, cannot hide
 there for the submerged shafts of the

sun,
split like spun
 glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
 into the crevices—
 in and out, illuminating

the
turquoise sea
 of bodies.
 The water drives a wedge
 of iron throught the iron edge
 of the cliff; whereupon the stars,

pink
rice-grains, ink-
 bespattered jelly fish, crabs like green
 lilies, and submarine
 toadstools, slide each on the other.


All
external
 marks of abuse are present on this
 defiant edifice—
 all the physical features of

ac-
cident—lack
 of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
 hatchet strokes, these things stand
 out on it; the chasm-side is

dead.

Repeated
 evidence ahs proved that it can live
 on what can not revive
 its youth.
 The sea grows old in it.

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