Steve dug it up in the backyard.
Its wrecked cubic modules' plastered carapace loomed up over his tomato vines,
the cavernous concrete ribcage marked with the occasional tubercular kiosk.
"It's the skeleton of a shopping mall," Steve said.
Yellow daylight now seeped in through the uncovered orbits of its floating clerestory crania.

We stepped cautiously in between bony buttresses of ossified escalators
into gaping open atria of shattered glass and shriveled linoleum,
past astroturf ventricles and scattered mannequin nipples like mushrooms
to the empty food courts of the beast's dead memories.

Steve stopped beside a protuberant dry fountain,
picked up a corroded copper gastrolith of a coin
and hurled it at the chitinous membrane of an awning.
"Look," he said. "That must have been its Foot Locker."