Cerulean blue spots flash and explode, visible
even with my eyes closed as the star trek machine
rotates around my head. I am strapped down
to the narrow table by the custom-made mesh mask
that covers my face. The techies have left the room,
but Mick Jagger keeps me company as he wails about
the house of the rising sun. I remind myself to see
the radiation as fragrant smoke lulling my resident bee
hive to sleep so I can transport it to a wildflower-lush
meadow in the mountains: bee heaven.

Later, we walk the neighborhood, wooden and fieldstone
mansions shaded and greened by burly old maples
which by the time six weeks are over, will be well on their way
to red. Zinnias, cosmos, and roses abound; no frost
has settled here yet. Maybe the bees won’t have to
travel that far to find an acceptable paradise.