From Big Stupid Face, a manuscript in progress.

Its usual way moves in
with a privacy that rips out plantings
ragged and diseased
a leap exhilarating away
in unheard-of petals.

Even bees shun them.
Dishes putrefy even as you eat.
Stink human by noon, and the mirror,
well, the mirror washes away
the edifice work went into.
The history of next doors
may be the glimmer of horizon

summarizing the place of the planet
against the obituary of astrophysics.
It is the usual way
with headlamps the miners wear
into tunnels beneath us
to turn every drip of water into diamond.