Apiary in the Planetarium

The old dome opens at dawn like a slow eyelid, rusted constellations loosening from their screws. Through the cracked oculus, bees pour in, a golden script rewriting the ceiling.

They settle where Saturn once hung on fishing wire, building a hive in the hollow of an eclipse. Wax rises in pale hexagons, a warm geometry no telescope ever found.

By noon, the room hums in one long vowel. Dust lifts and turns in the sound, as if each mote remembers being a star and chooses, briefly, to glow again.

At evening I sweep the floor of fallen charts, ink planets smudged into weather. Outside, the sky keeps its distances; inside, honey gathers its small, bright gravity.