Damon McLaughlin
		Empty Vessel Either way, a glass has no theory on itself "except to say it understands" thinking in terms of space, of which it is a reservoir. Along its rim, atoms like cats falling over and over in love with jeans, with corners, and like cats, a glass has no idea what it’s up against. You raise it, and it pours into you something pure, though its surface smudges with lipstick and skin, as if a cloud passed and left its shadow there. If a glass shatters, it is no worse off. It regards death in terms of exchange and slides into your heel where a part of you escapes, unaware of the whole it no longer belongs to, that there is less of you and more of itself than ever.