Coming down from the rafters now, swaying,
on ropes so frayed they seem, from here,
like hairs caught on the surface of the eye
or jellyfish tendrils
or ghost fingers dripping
or ghosts of ropes
and that "is this place haunted" is not a question but a chorus
is only evidence to the lie that it's a place at all
or any more than nerves at play
or the chance arrangement of folds in sheets in dark rooms
or phrases found familiar in music damp through walls
or an excuse to change the subject.

Love,
the dead minotaur