by Marianne Moore
wade
through black jade.
Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
adjusting 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 on each other.
All
external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice -
all the physical features of
accident - 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 on it.
Robin's Nest 