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My hands smell of incense,
and I don’t know why.
I think of things I’ve touched.
No girls in hemp clothing.
No books of poetry.
Just this ballpoint pen.
This spiral bound notebook.
The armrest of my chair.
I discreetly sniff them.
There’s no explanation.
I sit with my elbow
on my desk, with my chin
in my hand, my fingers
resting above my lip
and daydream about hippie girls
and dusty old bookstores
until the fragrance fades.
  • A poem by D. Rush.


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