Spontaneous Writings of Matt Brand 710

to be written down


Holding up thumbs
to block the sunlight, if but briefly
we could remember the days accumuled
where we had all, as individuals might,
forgetten the names for colors
or how we all think the ends of days work/
how long it takes to run until you're out of breath,
in between pants, escaping
half-words melting
into questions of hidden desperation,
wonders dating forever—
how do
piano
keys
look out
of context;
where
is this
rushing
to,
and is
falling
into
newness
of a body
just
the memory
of nausea,
glowing
burial.