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.