We drive over the luster
of old accidents
avoiding all the sharp parts
if we can.
The fire in her feels like
new leather on my finger tips.
The fire in me chills her like
a frosted glass around
gold beer almost
dimmer than the bar.
Stain glass cathedral
windows draw her eyes
from where our window
opens letting wind
rush in and make
all kind of noise.
She likes it better
than the fake stuff
from the worn out vents
that never get as cold
as summers past.
Sometimes I agree with her
and the ride continues smoothly
over hills and under bridges
where old trains cross
shaking everything around them.
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