next
 
 
 

YOU CAN LEAD A HORSE TO WATER
Because I am not into poetic husbandry,
I don’t see the point of a desiccated dedication 
to desire; animal allure, the pre-emptive absence
of a heart weighty as a hummingbird. Counting
the hours spent trying to differentiate myself  
from want or its dereliction, that four letter word  
nobody swears by. On righteous days, 
I like to fashion myself as a globe-trotting man-scold. 
I’ve been told to hide jewels in strange places 
and sometimes wondered what other stylistic effects 
were to be found had I checked the trough. 
All my good thoughts expatriated; they write to me sometimes,
a little lonely, a little perplexed. Transnational 
orphans in a romantic lexicon whispering 
sweet annunications to demotic farmhands dressed 
as yogi initiates. The love of a good obscurity,
besting the next beast. Listening to the troubadour
at night-time croon: 

o where did my amatory context go?