LABYRINTH

Somewhere within the murmuring of things that make no difference—aimlessly playing, drifting in the wind—a loose door swings, banging against a wall; the piece of string that held it shut has blown away. Delaying, somewhere within the murmuring of things, crickets and tree toads pause, listening; now they go on with their shrill surveying. Drifting in the wind, a loose door swings in widening arcs. Each rusty iron hinge creaks in a different key: each is decaying, somewhere within. The murmuring of things wells up—the quickening thrum of wings, the pulsing, intersecting voice swaying, drifting in the wind. A loose door swings; no torch, no adventitious thread brings meaning to this maze, this endless straying somewhere within the murmuring of things. Drifting in the wind, a loose door swings.

Jared Carter