my nose is the brain of her smell

and I'm trying to place it--

is it ten kinds of soft powder,

or is it bedsheets freshly fooled from a dryer?

"But in the end, I'd rather eat a strawberry, smell my daughter's hair, or read a book that, against all postmodern odds, conjures up the intense experience of human life." says Hemon

who, this paused moment,
plays the brain of my nose

And thinks: honeysuckle
honeysuckle
vanilla