Apiary of the Rooftop Transmitter

At dusk the roof unbuttons its tar-black coat, boxes of wood like small organs waiting, and the hive hum gathers under the antenna as if the city is clearing its throat.

We lift frames and read the waxen script, saffron commas, hexagonal vows, a map of rooftops, alley magnolias, the breath of buses turning to gold.

Below, the streets practice their metal speech; up here, radio waves run clear as creek water. The bees stitch their flight into the static, threading the needle of night.

When we close the lid, a new weather begins: pollen dust on our wrists, a faint ozone. The transmitter wakes and combs the dark, carrying our sweetness out over the river.