On Language's Infinity

Trying to mimic a kind of eighteenth century sensibility in this one both in tone and form, although the sonnet form itself is older - it's Shakesperean sonnet form, with an iambic pentameter rhymescheme of abab, cdcd, efef, gg.

I wrote it for my aunt, after we knew her cancer had come back, terminally. I never had the heart to give it to her at the time and I think I might have been right about that - it seems now to be to be too didactic. The living should probably not try to tell the dying what to think.


On Language’s Infinity

In language’s infinity I saw
our own immortality, for what thing
could ever dispossess us of that law,
now I can see the threads to which we cling
dissolve as stones abraded by the rain
no longer disclose the names they cited,
whatever their incumbents’ sober pain.
Careful words are by erosion sited
just in advance of meaning’s careless drift;
our luck is to catch sight of some small part
in the brief gleaming of the motes’ slow shift;
and hope this lets enough into the heart
      to crack apart the vain eternal plea
      and grasp the brief and glorious finity.