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.