Apiary Above the Traffic

At dusk the rooftops open like accordions, tin ribs breathing heat into the evening. Between satellite dishes and laundry lines, the hives hum a low brass note.

Bees lift from their boxes, amber commas editing the air above impatient streets. Below, buses kneel and rise at every stop, while up here clover glows in paint buckets.

The keeper moves in smoke and veil, hands slow as if turning pages underwater. Honey gathers from billboard light and linden bloom, a small sun poured into borrowed jars.

Night climbs the stairwell in concrete shoes. Still the comb remembers every wingbeat. In each hexagon, the city is translated: noise into nectar, hurry into gold.