Long Haul

Centuries ago my foot last planted on earth.
Now, my bones have grown brittle and fossilization
Curled around my spine like a witch claiming
The first born. I have adapted – dry pillowcase
Crackling with electricity – perhaps that is why I am
Refused entry back on land. Instead I am banished
To scrabble to outrun time and its glowing greedy fingers
Fleeing into the cold blue while the horizon,
Warm and seductive, stretches out behind me,
Red mouth ready to close on the feast.
I have evolved into a lesser creature, doe-like
Half-form, puddling at the knees. Too much effort-
To flee, to stand, sleep, exist.

I am weary, as suspended clouds are weary,
And cannot wait for this to end; to become
Raindrops or to be swallowed whole, either way is
Fine.