The fluorescent hum remembers the night shift: a blue ribbon of light between the blinds.
Clinic Hours, After Rain; Ouroboros at the Kitchen Table; Three Small Things I Carry; Pinball, or How the City Learns Its Edges; Sequence: Four Doors
How I Write
I write poems the way some people keep a notebook by the phone: not to capture everything, but to be ready when something important calls. Most of my poems begin with a moment that refuses to stay quiet: a small human exchange, a remembered voice, an image that lingers longer than it should. I don’t chase ideas so much as I wait for them to return, shaped by time and attention.