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, lifting 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.