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12 G i n g k o e s When I retrace our footsteps to Bloomington I recall talking jazz, the half-forgotten South in our mouths, the reptilian brain swollen with manly regrets left behind, thumbing volumes inscribed to the dead in used bookstores, & then rounding griffins carved into limestone. The gingkoes dropped fruit at our feet & an old woman scooped the smelly medicine into a red plastic bucket, laughing. We walked across the green reciting Hayden, & I still believe those hours we could see through stone. I don’t remember the girls in summer dresses strolling out of the movie on Kirkwood, but in the Runcible Spoon sniffing the air, Cat Stevens on a speaker, we tried to buy back our souls with reveries & coffee, the scent of bathos on our scuffed shoes. —for Christopher Gilbert ...

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