A long incision in the tarmac
two metres deep and strung with cables,
dissected sinews
draped across an open wound.
Below that, a tight packed marl
of clay and river sand
run through with rusty pipes
and dank with ancient water.
I could see bones there –
how little there is left of us –
a carious jaw, and half a skull
scoured with grit and stained with slime –
the trash of centuries, the rags of time.
The Top Banana 