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  1. To A Pipe

    I don’t know this thing, this silver and brown thing. The machined handle, the chipped wood. The residues and musty vestiges of tobacco. The little metal embellishments. I trust this thing. I know it’s use, it’s purpose, it’s presence. What I wish to know, however, is whose lips held this thing. Whose lungs did it fill? May I touch these well-made things?
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