The Back Of

My hand is like a face rich with the smart smack of diorama mini figures reach for guns action drama in places the cracks ache against rivers that spread barriers open that drive across broad shoulders with question mark numbers brooding and intent to weigh choices she talks about winter and icebreak and heartfrost as if the beginning was resting easily in an open palm frond or the color of understanding could flutter like a shadow bird she wants her desire to be handheld and light that breaches the tinted pane fractures against whatever can be believed in facts that dangle of chains and wonder within sworls and ridges enmeshed in battle hurling at first meaning divined without that sharp report of moving on easily from scar to tear to hear what my face says my hand would wear here as plain but between what you know are mine what you know but that I know as mine and can't call anything else but your insistence that virtue is knowing the back of holds on tightly for clarity out of fear