I could stumble from one end of town
to the other,
a mile of tripping over my own feet
somewhere between the water and the hills
between the fishes and the coyotes.

Twelve years as a tide,
scraping the same sand with raw fingers
waiting for the current to tug me out to sea.
tossing and turning,
the city set on spin-cycle.

We built a house atop a mound of dirt,
overlooking the valley of sticks and tanned grass
inhabited by the breakers.
The leather skinned reptiles who found dust
beyond their childhoods.

Where the tide has crashed for a hundred years
and the floaters and drinkers,
the crumbling ambitions have washed ashore
along the Payette River.

I see the same horizon from every street corner.
The only variable
is the number of cars that pass through everyday
and have the unfair luck
of escaping the city limits.