Labyrinth by Thomas Zimmerman


by Thomas Zimmerman

She puts a record on, a scratchy thing,

some Haydn string quartets, a thrift-shop steal,

a Mahler and a Beethoven among 

the haul. More clutter for the house, but comfort

for the mind. Or the emotions. Oh, 

OK: the soul. But why is it so hard

for her to say such things? Yes, irony

can ring as false as earnestness. There’s nothing

false about the music. Lighter than

she’d like, but she could use some sun. Root-pale

and growing gnarlier, she twists infinity

into a peanut shell. Dark matter, 

this. The needle’s found its way to freedom.

Now the labyrinth spins silently.

Thomas Zimmerman (he/him/his) teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His poems have appeared recently in The Beatnik Cowboy, M58, and the anthology Extreme Sonnets. Tom’s website:

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