Well-Lit Sexual Encounter
His first appearance as huffing groans
I hear too much of her
In the garish curtains and glass tremendous
Imagine she looked through them toward it
Wanting or liking to want, stacking debts into the gray ziggurat
An hour accrues sympathetically
A garland of lilies stitched into fabric, they have touched
The Perspex here and here as talk stretches further
The motel makes an easy invention
Carpet grows meaningful, taking apart the song
For the sadness of pleasure, orange plush
A lot of golds in this music, spreading reddish
Orange, orange, and umber
She rolls down the mix of fabrics, such as plush
Orange plush, then flannel
In this room sound swarms unparticular and correct
Through the bust of screen window
The bed is a taste so correct in its serenade
The wallpaper of earliest morning
Awake in the death of one Sunday’s lyric
Awake with the scenery I rejoice for the day the color of field
That’s such a good line, said to one another
The pang of a few rocks outside the door kicked in
The well-litness of the lonely
Their silkish horizons and regular orbit
In the cranberry color of car light and dawning
Moods of an up-down arrangement
Or going for groceries he grabs ass in the clearing
I am grooving rose notes in this country
Music the invisible harness, position
Imagine the highways had been made of love, all the highways
And intimate townscapes
The brave edges of sex finally uncreepy
Conveyed merely the moment reviving
And merely I listened, poured myself through assumption
Posted the threnody in fair use
Watched as time it was that time widened
I found the moment in my car
next I lost it. “For the car is pierced by evil.”
In a circle of patrons, on whom might I inflict
such bright and minor status?
The everyday guarantees a certain visual diplomacy,
the river and white field above which
thorough cloudscapes hover.
I find myself outside their nuance.
There is a parallel shine to one’s conscience.
It spins its vinyl emotion.
I put the cello on the spectrum, I put my brother.
Someone worked full-time in our error.
The all-night gym is a particular fear, perhaps
Just for reference on May the 28th
some meteors came. Looking is like hoarding
and thus hoarding. I try to move
beyond it, elongate the star sign
into a random object: crying baby.
Thing of the chest. And then
the salmon, agog.
Much insight is nonrecurring though
I would like to forage its source,
sever the crude future
of each weather. What’s a fellow
if not in theory. His numerical ragers
to find yourself on the rooftop of, like wind
Where all one’s fog lives
might then be this softer institution, a kind of people
and rawly uncreative, plus repetition:
I am attached to this bracelet.
I am attached to my carriage.
I am attached to such nectar.
Satisfaction is a plain destination.
Yet disorder maintains
my reluctance to flatter.
The corn maze presents its doubled nature,
weak incidence of ataraxia, and
the watcher leaning in. I was a mild woman
who never took a salaried position.
HANNAH BROOKS-MOTL is the author of the chapbook The Montaigne Result (Song Cave, 2013) and the full-length collection The New Years (Rescue Press, 2014). Recent work has appeared in Banango Street, BAX 2014, and the Cambridge Literary Review. She currently lives in Chicago.