on thin ice,
drawn in dizzying circles
into each other's
attractive center of spin,
breathlessly scraping
our skin-slippery surface,
gliding the dangerous edges
of mundane-days' schedules.
of each other,
a rushed touch,
a kiss hastily snatched
between ready lips;
time, our stolen ice-cream cone
precariously dripping;
sweet thickness, this patient trickle
from the lid of Pandora's box.
Paper tigers,
roaring white pages
torn free in new-found adventures,
organized stacks peeling wildly
in the tempting wind
of opportunity's window;
chaos, eagerly planned,
this moment's rush
devouring anticipation.

 Jon Bohrn (2000)


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