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 throught 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
          &nbsout on it; the chasm-side is
dead.
Repeated
      evidence ahs proved that it can live
      on what can not revive
           its youth. The sea grows old in it.
Marianne Moore (b. in Kirkwood, Missouri, on Nov. 15, 1887; d. on Feb. 5, 1972)
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Poetry /Poesia
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