What,
the Handcream?

It sears;
a snowball clenched too long in a young child’s fist,
but it’s not to be thrown.
It’s the exquisite beauty
of the pain
to be felt,
in the infinite
moment
before
climax
takes over,
releasing,
it(')s cascading waves of raucous laughter.

I hold on ever tighter
to that fireball of slowly melting ice;
my anchor
dissolving into the dusk.