Slid back into the stomach pit, the slick bomb shelter inside, white fingerling mollusk turning back in on itself. Wait it out.
By burrowing and burrowing, you will eventually come topside on the complete other surface of what was to be evaded. By waiting in the ground, you rot to seed and become part of a microbial constellation, a great rhizomal string coiled beneath everything. And the string sings.
These are your real body, one that joins you to others. Nothing can be run from too long.
The world beyond the bounds of that insufficient skin and mask of face will reach in, a cold fog to wake you, or tendrils of sun that lead you out into a field where you never could have guessed what was being born, running and someday dying, the beginning of it, or a time when you can go to meet it.
