Acéphale

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.