Balikbayan In Praise Of Impending Irreversible Ecological Disaster

Art-making isn’t suffering until it is. After a 
good day of writing,  I  don’t  enjoy  it.  The 
world  is  so  strange until  I  remember I’m 
going to die. Then it’s beautiful. Over a bar-
ren hill  is  a rainbow, a gesture towards art-
ifice. The wasps that die for fig to fruit, even 
in  a  poem,  do not metaphor.  The planet is 
unbeauty. I’ve been divorced. Sure, my pops 
beat me. I’ve failed my children and several 
other  beloveds.  The  room  spins. I  am  so 
afraid is a confession too. The world is ____
and  men  in uniforms  would happily kill me 
depending on what side of the orchard I stay.