All day he’s tasted it.
Last night too.
His eyes burning,
like the city where
smoke still chars the sky.
History will not record
exactly how it was.
Some perhaps will grasp
wisps of the story.
He knows his part.
She looked back.
He yearned to.
You cannot live so long together
and not lean into the other,
longing having grown
like twin trees
Memories,
Not all smoke-nor tears-
but glintings and illuminations
and laughter as well
He offered his daughters.
Brassy offenders, these men
would not take common desserts.
Like most, they desired to rise-
the closest to truth they’d come.
But, how different was the heart
that offered his daughters?
Not all desires acted-
seeking-
the numinous everywhere.
Having to face deserts again,
he turns from his wife-
a salt lick for cattle,
his head a brazier.
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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