Dangerous Ride

Will she settle within my hands?

When I dream I anticipate her poems
as longing sets our lips to rise and fall.

We are never ordinary
lovers on the usual street.

She knows I worry. She can hear
my footsteps, equally paced, not
measured but thrown her way,
caught to discover anticipated rest.

We open exits driven from storms.
There is the illusion of quiet
when harmony is clean in hands.

We are dangerous rides
with unpredictable ends.
No doors can close while
the underworld sleeps.