Slowly: out of that sleep that numbs the knife edge, I come home to a various world, to faces and voices, To a blur of angels at this keep, awaiting.
Vague prophecies of life somewhat lasting, A testing of steadying heartbeat, of firm susperation.
Such is the welcomed review of my waking, I, who long wait a review of old words: Indifferent journals stack high in the dusty library.
It is time to set this whole house in order: With what mutual joy, then, this steady acclaim; A cold stethoscope even assures of rumbling gases, Last sign of return to the intricate, the elemental.
What joy in this communal moment devoted to life: We celebrate this late voice of my waking, The lowly intestines surrendering recovery.
Slowly: I shall return to dark bread and deep wine.
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.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
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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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