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skaters Skaters 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. Thieves 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) |
