NUDE

NUDE


We found a river, sunny July day,
rented a motel that night,
washed off the mud, then
slipped between starched
motel sheets. We flipped
through the channels, cable
a novelty then. And we said
—you think motels will ever
stop feeling new? Tap water
in plastic cups may always
taste as bad, but will
the bathroom tile, the rattling
air conditioner, the stale carpet
ever not become
this night first again, first again
like your hand touching my neck,
the small of your back, just
damp from the shower?