Swift Love, Sweet Motor

And will they always be so tender. her
Face a kind of star to burn him up, she
Nearly there and wholly tremulous, his lap?
Where ecstacy lolls unabashed, his knee?

Will always run the road under the wheels.
The kiss of tire to boulevard complete.
The fuels of joy and speed flow brightly, make
Sunday combust in a miraculous heat's

Will ever Just this perilous hot way
Survive to make them almost crash in bliss.
Just missing (where old panic licks his grin)
Black flowers and funerals of the abyss?

Question to question: and no answer mine.
Love rides locked to love whose motors pass
Leaving upon my traffic eye one token.
A gleam at fifty miles through shatterproof glass,

Her smile, a little honey-comb Just broken.