Languor

His word, his breath,
Are merely synecdoche —
Ephemeral.

Nothing is true in the true
Sense of the word.

He drifts on the Lethe,
Intoxicated by water that transforms —
A trip into languor —
And never sets foot on the other shore.

“A writer is like a tuning fork: We respond when we’re struck by something. The thing is to pay attention… If we’re lucky, it will be a note that reverberates and expands, one that other people will hear and understand.”
— Roxanna Robinson