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46 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW CHARLES THORNBURY THE MAKAR'S COLOPHON She eases up the moulding trunk, these roots burrowed in a swirl of current. Her spring is a slow glistening from limb to limb, a cocoon that makes her colophon amble. She hangs blotched on her enactments. She declines her stain-ticked down, dangling, drooping, and swinging in the wind a sticky film that traUs like dawn. Up the same tree, she's done it every season; the heavy roots, urged like nerves, have nibbled down centuries of loss and crept into a kUn of new soil. ...

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