No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
If dreams left bones I would sift them gently from the sheets. A rib of moonlight.
I carry fragments of lines in my mind for days or weeks before writing them down. Sometimes the line arrives whole, sometimes only as rhythm. I try to follow the sound first and the meaning later. Language, like water, tends to find its own level if you give it enough patience.
The fluorescent hum remembers the night shift: a blue ribbon of light between the blinds.
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.