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Thursday 12 June 2014

Christine Murray


now’s dark is a clever
adjustment of the iris
to her not-lightness,

now’s dark is an anguish
of silhouette hidden in
tree’s whispering reed

now’s dark is a white
chair beneath a tree
moon-illumined and
somehow wrongly set




now’s dark is a heap of mottled

ashen in its not-light, it could be a
pile of ash,

it's the silver of silica dotted with
miniscule impurities, sunless.



now’s dark the pearl
mother-of-pearl interior

is imagined in its streaks
of opalescent, it doesn’t

reflect anything on its surfaces
beneath the black skin of its

bone button, or chain, its
dullness is an indictment
of light’s absences, its cycles.



now’s dark is the absence of light-ness
from the action of being / now’s dark is

the lament unvoiced none the less it has
turbulence and it will not stop crying even

the skin /
thinks bloomlight its nothing/ its nowhere

a slip of light illumines the secret shell
that pearly white/now’s dark negates it



now’s dark has not caught a cobweb
canopy cornered and waving in slats

at a window that gives back black as
a matter of course and sometimes a

silvered face will float in window’s
mirror if the moon presents her globe

now’s dark shows tree-secrets in
silhouette if the eye adjusts enough.


  1. The moon did, indeed, present her globe. Smooth as black ice.