Dear Minotaur

- after Leonora Carrington, "And Then We Saw the Daughter 
of the Minotaur" (1953)

In the heart of our labyrinth where orbs
      float from table to floor and the ghost
              dogs pause before coitus, we find  
you whole and untroubled. The reddest
       thing here is a rose: disheveled, 
               it will not turn into a ball of twine
or a blinking signal on a hand-held GPS.
        In the heart of a snail, in the eye 
               of a whorl— a petal tumbles 
like a clean white sheet in the dryer 
        whereas the floating clouds need 
               one more cycle. A weed's 
delicate blossom waves from  
        the head of a departing figure: 
               perhaps she'll find what she is
looking for inside a rune or a tarot.
        Perhaps the light is brighter in the upper
               regions, though it isn't always so.