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 through 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 has proved that it can live on what can not revive its youth. The sea grows old in it.