Anywhere but right here
feels severely out of place.

The way the sun attacks me
from all the wrong angles.

The flavors of parts of a pig
I’d rather pass on. Dancing

badly to amateur trance riffs
alongside some trashlit river.

Is her dingo in my baby,
or is my baby in her dingo?

I’ll never know. I’ll never belong
so far from home, but before I leave,

I always fill a suitcase with pad thai
from the place around the corner.

Then, once I get where I’m going,
I put your photo beside any

temporary bed, but I miss
Brian Wilson already. Maybe I need

a gold xylophone and a bathrobe.
Dear Loneliness—

know that every day away from you
is another unbearable party.

The people who live their lives
by the yellow sun
are called chicken tenders.

Those who love the red sun
and its lazy, loping orbit
are known as bone marrow.

If two people fall in love
and one is a chicken tender
and the other is bone marrow,

they have to meet in secret
when both suns are down
and it’s so cold that their

shared breath makes clouds
that rain ice on their faces
while they kiss in the cemetery.

That’s just the way it is—
two suns and forbidden love
and sad songs about oranges.

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