The Fish

wade
through black jade.
   Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
   adjusting the ash-heaps;
      opening and shutting like 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
tuquoise 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
   lillies, 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.

To Military Progress

You use your mind
like a millstone to grind
   chaff.
You polish it
and with your warped wit
   laugh

at your torso
prostrate where the crow
   falls
on such faint hearts
as its god imparts
   calls

and claps its wings
till the tumult brings
   more
Black minute-men
to revive again
   war

at little cost.
They cry for the lost
   head
and seek their prize
till the evening sky's
   red.