The Rest of Love — by Carl Phillips

The hive is for where
the honey was.
Was findable there,

then not.
Sometimes I think I dreamed it,
or I am saying it like a thing

that I would do,
when I would never,
and calling it art:

that first time;
that second time...
That's how it starts—

I know as much about mythology
as, by now,
you must also. The bull

for slaughter; the number of days
required for the carcass to rot
correctly—

so that eventually, the bees come back,
lifing the dropped veil of
themselves up,

into the air, like some
dark and obvious
exception to a rule

I once knew. Is it true that
nothing lacks, given
the right comparison,

its charm?
In the story,
it is difficult to say

whether Orpheus is stupid,
or is heartless, or—what,
human?

He looks back.
He's lost everything.

And his own story begins in earnest.