Atlas of Pollen at Dusk

At the bus stop, evening shakes out its pockets of seed, yellow dust lifting from the sleeves of passing cyclists. A dog noses the curb where rain left a silver grammar, and the city inhales through grates warm as bread.

On the river, barges drag long vowels under bridges, streetlamps bloom one by one like patient neurons. I hear a violin from an open fifth-floor window, thin fire stitching the cool fabric of air.

Somewhere a bakery door swings and closes, releasing cinnamon, then darkness, then cinnamon again. My hands remember apples I no longer carry; their weight returns whenever bells begin.

Night settles not as curtain but as moss, quietly taking the shape of every stone. By midnight the sidewalks are maps of soft gold pollen, and tomorrow already hums inside the leaves.