Six pages today, some of it quite rough, but some of it at least has potential.

The orange gathers in on itself, reflecting and intensifying, insinuating, incinerating. They say the heat is on, the average temperature up by one degree in the last hundred years, the sun’s ray trapped and held here like a greenhouse. I guess it’s true what they say about people in glass houses, and but what that means for the man who tended orchids in Malibu, I don’t know. Which is all to say that Arrhenius was right. This time could be better spent capturing methane.

I worry, of course, about political didacticism. In fact, any overtly political poem runs a grave risk of polemic, and it can be difficult to balance. A strategy I have used in the past (with mixed results) was to avoid voicing any sort of opinion and to take refuge in facts. But this project seems to be creeping away from facts. I'm not sure what to do about that.

How truth can look through, the truth of it being both more and less easy to believe, convenience being uppermost in our minds. Rain again Tuesday, and a break in the rain. And the sky is dark as violence, a shattered mirror, the canvas painted thickly, the shapes disoriented, distracted, uncertain of the horizon, a jagged edge, blackened and soot-stained. He says it’s time to be prepared, stocking up on water and food and shotgun shells, the wind-up radio slash flashlight he got for his birthday.