I came to poetry through silence.

Before I thought of myself as a writer, I was sitting—watching the breath arrive and leave, learning how attention actually works. Somewhere in that quiet, language began to appear on its own. Not as something to manufacture, but as something to notice. A line would surface the way a ripple does: brief, exact, asking only to be seen.

For me, poetry is less an act of expression than an act of listening. The same patience that follows a breath can follow a sentence. Walking, waiting for a light to change, drinking coffee, getting lost and returning—these are already writing practices if you’re paying attention.

My work lives at the meeting place of contemplative practice and literary craft. I write poems and essays, publish small books, and teach writing as a way of seeing more clearly. When I work with others, the goal isn’t performance but presence: slowing down long enough for the ordinary world to begin speaking again.

If you’re here, you probably sense that attention is a discipline, that a good line can feel like a bell, and that writing can be a form of practice, not just a product.

Welcome.