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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.
Other works by Marianne Moore...



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