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145 LAST OF THE BUSH BATHS (an ethnopoetic) A cold fog almost a steam bath’s thickness sits on the salt towel of the beach streets not saying anything, which is to say no traffic. Chicago’s not asleep, just not up to it. The sight of the lake has not gone off somewhere, but it’s there but it’s Sunday. An all-nighter is its own alarm: the frozen surface waves in the mirror bent out of shape, discordant; he needs to soak loose the hunted’s instinctive freeze in place loose, at least backed off enough to free a cold sweat and give this shit a rest . . . This steam room isn’t the good pipe and healing song from years back when we tried to re-imagine the sweat lodge from somebody else’s story into our own arms’ welcome . . . This salt is trucked. This is for sobering up. after the long search parties in whiteout hallucination. ...

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