Eating breakfast at the sunny bistro table, a bee landed in my orange juice
and swam desperately in circles around the glass, trying to free itself.
With cruel fascination, I watched this go on for some time.

The night before, I’d had a bad trip after taking too much of a psychedelic.
It built into a crushing, inescapable intensity. I woke my wife
and told her that the Big Bang was a cosmic suicide, that the far future was
an androgynous, universe-sized Christ who self-crucified
by exploding, which had illuminated
the deeper meaning of the Palestinian suicide bomber.
She stifled laughter as she stroked my arm.

After a delicate sleep, I was able to stomach food.
Chatter from the souk below clotted up the air.
The sky was an unblemished blue with a crystalline white sun.
The bee plopped into my glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice
and flailed, doggy-paddling not to drown, its wings submerged
as I watched it with my new knowledge
that there was no moral distinction between love and evil.

It wouldn’t matter if I rescued the bee or let it drown.
Still, I tipped the glass and the juice rushed over the table,
the yellow in the orange squirming and blaring in the sun.

It crawled weakly off the balcony and fell over the ledge
down several stories onto the concrete below,
where it was trampled under tourists’ feet.