Minotaur

The corridor turned, and the minotaur was the turn. Bull head, human chest, breath loud in the maze, horns scoring the old brick. People who heard that breath stopped counting doors. They came out with a minotaur gift already in the legs, the memory of a path that does not end. It shows again in minotaur playing cards laid in a line that bends, in a minotaur notebook whose margin is a maze, in a minotaur postcard of the horn and the dark turn. The lamp goes out. The breath does not.