eczema tender_square seasons shift and my hands take a beating, digits desiccate like cornstalks standing past harvest. at the middle phalanx, a deep itch roils the dermis, stress inflaming what falls beyond my grasp. i make impressions of half-moons with keratin and the terrain reddens. scratching scales to bring about smoothness: cracked cuts cry and snag against the touch of wool and fleece. salve never soothes the way it promises; my hands are parched plants wilting. 221106 what's it to you? who go blather from