a magician pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve for an eternity

it is tragic how much fabric spools onto the floor

someone in the audience rolls his eyes returning to his laptop

                                         writing the first sentence to his novel:

the mind is a labyrinth of neurons but what minotaur lies in it?

it is tragic how magicians are always booed off stage and replaced with pole dancers

the men didn’t know the dancer tonight is a mother of four and a lover of corn mazes

once when her children found the center of the corn maze they didn’t

                            so perhaps the minotaur

                                                              is nonbeing, nonexistence

perhaps I am the minotaur gathering quick grass from the garden for my father

or am I gathering beer bottles from the Great Lakes for lost innocence

or perhaps my blue newborn before nurses carry him into the unseen