As if in
moments lay
plummets
down which a puttering soul
might stunningly plunge

to a sun-splashed terrace
in Marrakesh:
tea so thick with
mint it conjures
kelp

in a cylinder of sea
but for the bees
gauzing the top:
and the man my guide

so unperturbed
he seems to sip
from very fur
serene even as
one

clings to his
beard and peers
with its tiny interstellar
eyes and fuzzed Confucian
face

so near the lips
it could be the bee’s
boisterous bonhomie
urging Drink, lad,
drink

before I blink
back to
Hamden
with a permanent
thirst and the sting of
dreams.

____________________________

Excerpted from The Dance by Christian Wiman. Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, July 2026. Copyright © 2026 by Christian Wiman. All rights reserved.