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.