Ron De Maris

Put an ear to the light at fall of dark and you will hear nothing. This pale luminescence that drifts in upon them makes a blue bole of their caves, a scare of their scything tails. They tell in the bubbling dark of images that come in upon them when light spreads like an oil slick and sea fans that once were their refuge turn away. Now there is no dark dark enough for their silver tails, scatter of color (like coins massively piling in the lap of a miser) that was, in the day, their pride. How hugely here we belong. This is their song in the silting drift of the reef. They have never seen the moon nor the black scut of night, stars spread like plankton in their beastly infinities.