Middle of the Night

The zany bee that haunts my bedroom’s so hyper he can’t do much but skim the wall and zoom the room, though he and I both know that neither wants him buzzing here at all. He’d rather be outside and free to fly, and I in simple sleep where dreams are sane. I can’t free him- more might fly in. That’s why I swat in vain at where he bangs the pane. I know now when by day I climb his trees, or kneel down near his flowers for a smell, why he feels the strong need to come release deep in my arm his little piece of hell. It is a kind of tit-for-tat attack: The stinging is his way of swatting back.