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I expect to find the hands of bodies,
frozen at the point of reaching,
breaking through the compacted loam
they're still extracting five years later,
because I don't believe
they've gone deep enough.

Thirty five odd years of stretching
the usable surface area of a city upward
collects a lot of clutter and I know
that the fractured bones,
of all that occupying matter,
cracked under the falling weight,
toppled down through the pipes and the air ducts,
clattering around
until they found the roots
that fed all that expansion,
that carried all that excrement
out to the sea.

And all those little bits of bone are down there,
clogging up the supply lines,
waiting for the back up to force them up,
through the pores,
hoping to reunite with their skin.