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172 gArnet poems History Blues The waters compassed me about, even to the soul; the depth closed me round about, the weeds were wrapped about my head. Jonah 2:5 Those days we scarcely bathed off the scent of one lover before tangling tongues with the next. Now we’re moving slow and steady through whatever it is. It’s mean, we know that much. Half the people have got Rottweilers, the other half are on leashes themselves. You tell me. But this day is fine. Wind has blown away the smog and somebody is burning sweet wood in a fireplace. I don’t even mind the plastic Santa someone stuck in his front yard crèche, arms thrust out like Jolson kneeling before the Christ child. Could be worse: we could have mortgages extending into the next life, hearts packed in duckfat. Instead, we just ripen, give off our sweet funk. Death knows where I live. So what. I don’t go to bed with nobody don’t know who Ho Chi Minh was. The Zohar says the storm was Jonah’s passion, the whale his body, and when he was spat out on the shores of Nineveh he had the stain of being human, was worth at least the weight of wet clothes. Old friend, let’s talk about how our skins have moved on around us like maps, how our scars refract the light passing through us as we fade. ...

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