Carl Philipps - Ghost Choir

What injures the hive injures the bee, says Marcus Aurelius. I say
not wanting to hurt another, this late, should maybe more than
count, still, as a form of love. Be wild. Bewilder. Not that they
hadn’t, of course, known unkindnesses, and been themselves
unkind. When the willow’s leaves, back again, unfold all along
their branches, the branches routinely in turn brushing then lifting

 

away from the pond’s face, it’s too late. Last night I doubted as I’ve
not doubted myself in years: knowing a thin...