Earthworm

Seven meters an hour, top speed, pulling closer the edge of asphalt you cannot

see. Mizzling rain glistens your body stripped to the skin. You row,

row for your life in air thick with whirlpools of danger. I cannot look

at you without suffering your fragility. There reels from the morning

sky a piece of burnt orange paper. Death grazes among islands of turquoise.

You defy ordinary good sense. You defy death. You ask so little.

Godspeed, only, to the permeable horizon calling like harbor lights.

Dear Reader,

Can I be direct with you?

War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.

First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.

But we can’t do it without readers like you.

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If you have any questions or would like more information, please contact Giovanni Del Piero, Director of the Editor’s Circle, at gdelpiero@firstthings.com or 212-627-1985.

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