On Discovering my Grandfather’s Tobacco Pipe

 
An indefinite artefact, preserved in its own air,

Measured in dust.

 

Burnt-oak finish, smooth curves on the fine cusp

Of its basin, its crook,

 

The wooden handle, with its finessed weight

Is an instrument,

 

And it is haunted by the rusty and sweet smell

Of its purposes.

 

Left by the mantelpiece, in its own time,

Its taste of memories.

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