Nailfolds

At the edge where skin meets bone,
A quiet atlas comes to light,
Where vessels curve in arcs unknown
And whisper truths beyond plain sight.

A single drop, a softened glare,
And suddenly the world grows small.
Red rivers lift from hidden air
To trace the body’s earliest call.

Here loops grow wide with silent strain,
Or narrow, paling into thread.
Here hemorrhage marks a subtle stain
Where fragile walls have gently bled.

A row disrupted, gaps between,
A shoreline thinning grain by grain,
Patterns forming, faintly seen,
Like weather gathering before the rain.

Before a muscle yields to ache,
Before a knuckle stiffens tight,
These tender arches bend and break
In maps of red and altered light.

The skin is not a boundary line
But glass held briefly to the flame;
Within its edge, small signs align
And speak what deeper currents claim.

So close the lens. Let stillness fall.
Attend the border, fine and slight.
For in this smallest field of all
An unseen story comes to sight.