Marianne Moore: The Fish

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 jellyfish, 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.

Published in 1918, in a far more conventional-looking version and with radically different line structure. Was its later rearrangement into this structure opportunistic?