The strong hand is unarmed,

Lurching,

ever quietly in the placid membrane.

It retracts from contact,

the opponent, flame worthy,

dispersing and rearranging,

wizened by confidence. The armor

holds in non existence. Like

a frog,

held by feather hands,

its underside rubbed red,

ingrained by pavement.

Its little heart,

matured temperament.

Her hands correct me,

fastidious and pebbled flesh ,

interfering at intervals long calculated.