I am having a rice-and-bean
burrito kind of night. I mean
this by way of thanks:

sun as quick-footed child bringing
buckets to fill holes
to fill holes,

to heal wounds old
and beckon through windows made
where sun streams through inlets in
hands when they hold.

My sunflower not even
or odd, just
pulled of a field
where buckets were
poured where
crickets were born
where rice was sown:

I await these rice-and-bean
burrito kind of nights,
kind of dark, kind of like
unraveling the secret geometry
of your own life.

In Chest

The summer of 1762. Crown Prince Sado of Chosŏn has been deemed unfit for rule on account of his worsening insanity. On the orders of his father, King Yŏngjo, Sado is confined in a small rice chest to die. This is in accordance with a Confucian prohibition against the breaking of skin.

I’m trying to space out
my heartbeats

to make each one
as loud as possible,

trying to make one
as loud as the thunder

whose reverberations
cornered me here.

San Francisco Holiday

Downtown San Francisco cook
reading from Mao’s Little Red Book,

do you ever wish you can
walk from here to Treasure Island?

Do to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” for maximum snark. This week I discovered that you cannot walk the western span of the Bay Bridge. There’s no footpath. You need a car. My family seems surprised that I am surprised by this.