Here's a Marianne Moore poem called "The Fish":
through black jade.
Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
adjusting the ash-heaps;
opening and shutting itself like
The barnacles which encrust the side
of the wave, cannot hide
there for the submerged shafts of the
split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
into the crevices —
in and out, illuminating
of bodies. The water drives a wedge
of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff; whereupon the stars,
bespattered jelly-fish, crabs like green
lillies, and submarine
toadstools, slide each on the other.
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice —
all the physical features of
ccident — lack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it; the chasm-side is
evidence has proved that it can live
on what can not revive
its youth. The sea grows old in it.
This poem is an example of that very rare thing in English verse (outside haiku): syllabic verse. Each stanza has lines with 1, 3, 9, 6, and 8 syllables respectively.
The rhyme scheme is AABBC with the usual English half-rhymes like an-fan, live-revive and swiftness-crevices. Iron has one syllable, opening has two.
There's gobs of commentary on this poem: if you want it, Google for it.