she like the cup was smaller than the rest, strewn with salt and pepper and oregano
colored dots on the chalky porcelain exterior that sloped, jutted, pouted to give your teeth
practice in grating, wrapped in a diminutive curb stomp position holding on to remember
she like the idealist possessed a new consciousness every infinitesimal second discerning
the previously discarded offering as just that and the tangible penance in her hands real,
the past, all simulacra, training for the eternal question who am i, what does i remember
Brian Duricy is a writer whose previous work has appeared in multiple major music publications. @uniform_unicorn.