Marrow of the Archivist

The archivist of tides wears gloves of salt, pulling the sea into drawers of air, each wave labeled with the hour it forgot, a hush of kelp like ink in the teeth.

In the back room a machine hums low, spooling our summers onto a warm reel; it smells of lemon peel and copper, and the light it gives is a slow green rain.

Outside, the city leans toward the river, bridges strung like lyres with wind, windows fluttering their private flags as if the day were learning to breathe.

At night the archivist sleeps on the roof, listening to the archive swell and recede, counting stars as if they were keys, and the world keeps filing itself away.