The Fish

WADE

through black jade.

Of the crow blue mussel shells, one

keeps

adjusting the ash heaps;

opening and shutting itself like

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 swift-

ness

into the crevices—

in and out, illuminating

the

turquoise sea

of bodies. The water drives a

wedge

of iron into the 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.