Cartography of Static

The antenna on the roof combs the dark like a hand through wet hair, straining for a language that won't settle. A moth circles the lamp's pale reef.

Inside, the radio hums its low orchard, seeds of voices falling and bruising the air. I map their drift with a pencil's quick weather, coastlines of static, small storms of breath.

In the kitchen, a glass of water holds a city upside down, its lights trembling as if the world were listening too. Somewhere a train pulls a long thread of iron.

I think of all the names I never said aloud, how they traveled anyway—between stations, between the hush and the signal. Morning will come unspooling, bright and ordinary.