Three Poems
Hypoxia Hell is no desert, but a garden. I did not destroy all the light, just the parts that we needed for breathing, our lungs mossing up in this meaningless green, our origin story gone damp. I cannot Valsalva. I killed all the phlox. I tried to drive out the wood-chewing bees from a garden turned hispid and mean in the heat. Their singing remains. There is nothing left here for us.
