The Fish [ed.]

by Claire Nashar
wade [this question]
through[, and back with] black [proceed, drop] jade.
       Of the crow-blue [stirs, the] mussel-shells, [and burn seeds] one keeps
       adjusting [an order of the visible] the ash-heaps;
              opening and shutting [divisibility] itself like [i know]
injured [future] fan[s us
       keeps] The barnacles [kind] which encrust the [same] side
       of the [same] wave, [a throat] cannot hide
              there [much less tongue] for the submerged shafts [voice-lit] of the
sun [and ideal],
split like [you are] spun
       [and the] glass [within], move[, underlight] themselves with spotlight swiftness
      [quivering] into the crevices [skinny]—
              in and out, illuminating
the [silt of]
turquoise sea [and
     curl] of bodies. The water [presses flowers] drives [weed] a wedge
       of iron [air] through the iron [sky top] edge
              of the cliff; whereupon the [emptied of] stars,
pink [silver
   our love] rice-[pale in] grains [my love], ink-[sunk since
or] bespattered [eyes where] jelly fish, crabs [die] like green
       [sick and then] lilies, and submarine [you are
              with spore-filled] toadstools, slide each [in so] on the other [you
] All
external [Rock]
       marks [are marks least] of abuse [most] are present on this [float]
       defiant edifice—
              [its] all [toward a state] the physical features of [my ball fisted]
cident—lack [the story]
       of cornice, dynamite [of astral aspect and] grooves, burns, and
       hatchet strokes, these [claims, masked] things[, with]stand
              out on it; the chasm, [lung]-side is
Repeated [water
       is] evidence has proved [kinful,] that it can live[. 
       Put] on what can not revive
              its youth. The sea grows old in [fussing] it.
This poem previously appeared in Shearsman.