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 spotlike swift-
    ness
    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 cannot revive
  its youth. The sea grows old in it.