The Map of a Sleeping City

In the hour when streetlights hum like low brass, the sidewalks fold themselves into soft paper. A pigeon tucks its head beneath a ledge, dreaming of seeds that glint like small coins.

I walk the grid and feel its pulse in my shoes, manholes exhaling warm breath, a slow tide. Windows drift past like aquariums of gold; inside, a kettle sings to no one in particular.

A taxi slips by, a fish in a dark river, leaving the water of asphalt to close behind. Somewhere a train threads the city’s needle, stitching a seam of sound between two silences.

By dawn the map will pretend it never slept, but I have seen the folded corners, the hidden routes. I carry them like lint in my pocket, proof the city knows how to dream of itself.