The Night of the Sweet Word Day

Wlaffyng, chytering, harryng,

And garryng grisbittyng—words

Have always been problematic.

We aren’t always all that stable,

In tongues nor in orthographies.

English of course is horrible

For grafting, chewing, and swallowing

Up its terms, amid much grating,

Chattering, and gnashing of teeth,

Among its self-appointed priests.

Change reeks with horror of decline,

Which is secretly the horror

That tomorrow’s living bodies

Won’t understand the living words

You grew up using and writing.

Well, they won’t. Sooner or later,

Even if the species defies

Its own grim prognostications

And continues to reproduce

Billions of viable offspring—

Even if humans prove sturdy

As wasps, or tortoises, or pines—

There will come a day when this sweet

Word, day, like every other word

Prancing along in these dark rows,

Won’t mean a thing to anyone,

As if it never dawned at all.