The Edge

Here and there, the edge is dense.
Here and there, it’s torn and thin.

If you think of it as thought,
It has a dark charm to it.

If you think of it as lives
In a torn net, as the trash

That spills out, as the raw place
Where kinds of life rub up hard

On old webs that burn and fray,
Then the dark charm tends to fade.

So it has to be with names.
Each time one seems firm and set

In its ways, with a wide gut,
If you look, you’ll find it frays

Where it bites at its own edge
Like a child that gnaws her nails,

A dog that chews its fur bald.
The edge is in each and all names,

A loose hem. Take life, big fat term,
Take it out to its edge end—

Is that bug life? Is that germ?
That worm? That word? In the end?