Apiary Above the Laundromat

At sunset the roof exhales warm tar and mint, hives hum like small engines idling toward night, shirts spin in blue windows below, bright planets, and the city loosens one metallic button.

A beekeeper lifts a frame, amber script dripping, bees stitch arcs through steam from noodle carts, each wing a shard of glass catching last light, each body carrying pollen like secret fire.

Between antennas, basil flowers keep ringing, taxi horns fade to a low brass river, honey gathers the taste of brick dust and rain, of rooftop gardens that refuse to be ornamental.

When dark comes, the comb holds a patient weather, hexagons cooling under the moon's pale thumb, and somewhere inside the hive, tomorrow is already being folded into gold.