And the rock we dug out of
the side of the hill
proved to be so radioactive
that two geologists exposed to it
went up in flames like touch-paper.

Only three of the men
returned from the mission to the dark side.
Some kind of green-scaled three-headed creature,
about twenty fields tall,
attacked the team,
tore many of them to shreds.

We lost Dr Ehlerimen to a bog,
and Professor Casey to a sudden landslide.
And our chef, when out scouring
the local plant life for prospective garnishes,
was sucked up and swallowed
by what is known in the lab 
as a crocodile flower.

Yes, I got your letter.
Crime’s on the rise.
There are violent protests in the street.
Countries in the Middle East
are talking war.
I agree, Earth is a dangerous place.
But just you try living elsewhere.

This outpost
is a sorry place,
but I’m a scientist
who must take pleasure
in the most arid soil,
the barest rock,
of a planet
that surely deserves
to be unknown.

Far from the breath
of a loved one,
this world kills
in a way
so no harm
seems to be done.
I’m roused
from dreams of home,
to reconvene with what
I’m being paid to do:
the travel,
the digging,
the assaying,
the reporting.

It’s a vast galaxy.
It’s beautiful
where I choose it to be,
ugly everywhere else.