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.