The enemies you made in this town know
you said too much to another man's wife
telling her that she smelled like a warm bed,
taking to heart Billie Holiday's words
that bread and love must come before sermons,
though it's not worth the crushing obsession
when betrayal stings like a Phaedra kiss.

Such are the debts this town never forgives
when even longing is loss.  The last place
you swore was home didn't have your address.
When protest turned riot in 89'
and strip mines on the San Juan burned your lungs
you gave up on offers of redemption,
your patience worn thin as invasion routes.

Now you claim this road puts all behind you,
where the sky dreams in ecstasy of hawks
and vanishing points grieve for horizons.
The reservation stretches behind you
where Route 12 runs like a scar.  Its echoes
sound like lovemaking in an empty room.