Through hard frost, the glow of a bright Hunter’s Moon blurred the edge
and turned our talk brashly optimistic. We slurred the edge.
Before the whining rail, there was hoot owl, waft of water’s
fall, buffalo thunder, skin slap: we overheard the edge.
We spoke of making a harder, sturdier wheel. Then talk
of men, of caliber, cabin rights. Horses spurred the edge.
As if to roast the country on a spit, we came with pigs,
land grants, lies, broadsides, gumption. We entrepreneured the edge.
Less than two folks but more than a thousand creatures per square
mile, as per squirrelly census. Wildly absurd, the edge.
In boondocks, at borders, a flash of drunken thigh might pass
for a real town treat. Camisoled outskirts deterred the edge.
Come here! Here’s my secret! Every curve can be conquered with
enough licking. After nowhere…more nowhere purred the edge.
The kerf, the fleam, the rake, the gullet: Perdix and Lu Ban
made the teeth spot-on and the ripsaw set deburred the edge.
Walking backwards into the future—certain of our past,
humming loud yesterday’s greatest hit—we dogbird the edge.
And when the West went so far as to become East again,
The Last Best West was North for those who still preferred the edge.
There were just some things you couldn’t buy off-the-shelf. Sporting
a wimp’s thesis, Frederick Jackson Turner auteured the edge.