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Weave of the Dark



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To conceive of the weave of the dark
is to lift forward the cloth
with a texture of silk, or wool, or nothing,
melting into the air, where the mind
is forever pulling for the edge, finding none,
or by the feel of the cloth, melting
away, like water from the ice
that was never cold, from a form
the mind could never hold:
it slipped away too fast.
And this edge, vanishing like a dream
of time, finds a place to hold fast
for a while, a gravity close
to the forgotten balance of the waters
of the womb, neither warm, nor cold;
the horror of drowning, suspended;
the ebbing ghost of nothingness,
formless in the world of darkness,
that can, for its time, offer
a drink, sheltered, cool and centering,
shield against the loss of the dark,
and the shapes, and landscapes,
like time, soon to slip forward
from it.

— From the August 5, 2013 issue of National Review.



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